


Mending Bridges

by antivanarmada



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff and Smut, LITERALLY, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Divorce, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, but mostly...angst, like....SLOW, will update smut tags as they come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antivanarmada/pseuds/antivanarmada
Summary: Five years ago, Moira O'Deorain was dealing with the dissolution of Overwatch and the end of her marriage to Angela Ziegler. In the time since, she's accomplished more than any of her detractors would have dreamed possible. With the resources of Oasis and Talon at her beck and call, no one can hold her research back anymore. But when Oasis is attacked and Angela unexpectedly reenters Moira's life, things get complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

When the first bomb ripped through the westernmost park in the Abu Hassoun Gardens, Oasis Minister of Genetics Moira O’Deorain was miles away. Miles away, perfectly safe, and oblivious to the danger that had just descended upon her city. When the second bomb dropped, she wasn’t so lucky. _That_ one landed a bit closer to home—just a few feet in front of the Ministry of Tourism, to be exact. It was still blocks down from Moira’s department, but she went into lockdown all the same. An attack on one Ministry building was considered an attack on them all. Security brought the shields up, armed guards ran their designated circuits, and every employee within the MoGen spent the rest of the day shuttered in safe zones and trying to bypass the communications firewall to let their loved ones know that they were safe.

 

All except Minister O’Deorain, anyway. It may be fine for her staff to waste the day cowering at their desks, but this was hardly Moira’s first time being in the sight of an enemy’s crosshairs. It would take a lot more than a backwater explosive to keep her from her work. Within minutes of the first attack, Moira was back in her lab. Later, this would be heralded by Ministry press as a sign of fearless leadership in the face of terror—a laudable show of strength for her frightened subordinates to look to for comfort. But that was nonsense. As she had for all of her life, Moira simply worked because she wished to. There was no greater meaning to it, no deeper drive underlying it all. She was simply a scientist.

 

Given the early hour of the attacks, the body count was minimal—three dead from the first bomb, two from the second, and around a dozen injured—but the panic that set in among the city’s residents was immediate. This was Oasis, people said. Things like this didn’t happen. Not _here._ When her colleagues said as much to Moira she simply nodded and let them talk. It was the polite thing to do, and people fearing for their lives appreciated politeness. But privately, she couldn’t have disagreed with their sentiments more. Oasis was not free from threats of violence. Violence was, after all, a simple fact of existence. As natural as breathing. The idea that Oasis would be any freer from violence than anywhere else was ridiculous. If anything, it was shocking that it had taken this long for something to happen.

 

Still, something needed to be done. The motive behind the attacks wasn’t clear yet, but terrorism was bad for business. Bad for everything, really. Oasis needed to be stable and secure for investments to flow, and Moira’s research depended on reliable investments. That couldn’t be interrupted. And besides, Oasis was her home now—a home that she had been integral in building. She would not sit back on the sidelines and see it fall to chaos.

 

*

 

Next morning’s meeting with the assembled Ministers was a joke. For all their messaging of quiet confidence and carrying on without worry, none of them knew anything substantial. They had no real suspects; security cameras showed that the bombs had been placed ahead of time, although the cameras themselves had been tampered with in order to cut out any recorded feed for about half an hour the morning of. As such, whoever had placed the bombs remained a mystery. The fact that whoever was behind the attacks had the resources to wipe Oasis security footage was concerning, and no one knew what to make of it. Shrapnel had been collected and was being tested, but they didn’t know much yet.

 

And, of course, no one knew for certain if yesterday’s attacks had been the end. Moira and the rest of the Ministers had been more or less expecting subsequent attacks after the first two, but none had come. For some, that was a good thing. For Moira, it was beyond disconcerting. Terrorism, at its core, had a _point._ There was a message behind it, no matter how idiotic or destructive. For someone to go to presumably great length to blow up two bombs only to not take credit and not make any demands afterwards? It was nonsensical. There was more to come—there had to be. Moira just didn’t know when, or on what scale the next blow would be.

 

Of course, it wasn’t her job to know. She was a doctor and a scientist and a scholar, not some security analyst. She knew weapons, but she was better served in her lab than trying to follow the trail of their mysterious attacker. As such, she didn’t have much to contribute in her talks with the other Ministers. Not much beyond her trademark cynicism anyway, and they had no interest in hearing that. They needed answers that Moira was in no way suited to provide.

 

But she sat in the meeting anyway, because she was still a Minister. The droning tone of Anya Al-Shahrani’s voice as she repeated over and over that it was important to act normal even if they didn’t _feel_ normal provided a perfect background for Moira to tune out and get up to speed on some work that needed attention. And if anyone had an issue with her scribbling notes in her journal the whole briefing, they didn’t say it.  

 

The meeting lasted hours longer than it needed to, but it was still midday by the time they adjourned. Glancing out the window to the street below, Moira could see that her driver was already waiting outside. No need to wait around and exchange pleasantries, then.

 

On the way out of the boardroom, Moira found herself accompanied by Minister Omar El-Shazli. He fell into lockstep with her, tipping his head slightly in greeting.

 

“Minister,” he said with a grin.

 

“Minister.”

 

El-Shazli was a few inches shorter than Moira, but he cut an imposing figure all the same. The sigil for the Ministry of Security was sewn onto the arm of his kaftan in scarlet thread. Moira couldn’t see it, but she knew that he had at least one weapon on him. Maybe even one that she’d designed.

 

“Heading back to the lab?”

 

“Heading home.”

 

“That’s a surprise,” El-Shazli said coolly. “It’s still so early in the day, and you’re usually such a workhorse. There are no critical projects that need your attention?”

 

“There always are. But they’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt.”

 

In all honesty, Moira _should_ have been going back to the lab. She didn’t often afford herself time to rest, and there were more than enough deadlines looming over her department that would normally have kept her from even considering taking the day off. In a few hours, though, she had a call to make. One that was too sensitive to make anywhere but at home.

 

El-Shazli regarded Moira out of the corner of his eye. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “Not too shaken by recent events, I hope?”

 

“Did I seem too shaken up just now? I thought it was rather clear that I’m looking at all this rather objectively.”

 

“From the outside it certainly seems that way,” he conceded. “But you never know. It could be that you’re traumatized and are simply putting on a brave face for all our sakes. The MoT is only a street down from your own Ministry. It would be natural to feel afraid.”

 

“You know me better than that,” Moira replied. “I’m not liable to fold like Anya. This is more of an annoyance than anything.”

 

El-Shazli shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. “You can’t blame Anya for her concern. We all react differently in times of stress. Some lash out, some fall apart, and some...are simply annoyed. There’s no way to know until you’re thrown into such a situation.”

 

“And which are you, then?”

 

“None of the above. Danger is an old friend; I’m delighted.”

 

“Best not go spreading that around,” she said, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

 

El-Shazli laughed. “Of course not. I simply say it now because I know you can relate. We’re made of similar stuff, unless I’ve been reading you wrong this whole time.”

 

Moira had always liked El-Shazli. Each of the Ministers were propelled by a love of science and a dislike of red tape, but few of them knew what it was like to fight your battles on the field as well as behind a desk. But the two of them did. He never asked her to talk about her days in Blackwatch—and she never brought up his time on active duty—but there was a silent respect running between them that she didn’t share with many other of her colleagues.  

 

“No,” she agreed. “You haven’t.”

 

They exited the building and stepped out onto the sidewalk. For what felt like the millionth time, Moira winced under the heat of the sun and wondered why Oasis had to be in the middle of a desert. Environmental stabilizers or not, the number of sunburns she’d gotten just from walking to and from a Ministry building was far too high.

 

El-Shazli craned his head to the left side of the street, and Moira saw him make brief eye contact with a group of men standing by the entryway. His security detail, no doubt. All Ministers were provided their own, but Moira had long since let hers go.

 

“I suspect you’ll be busy these days,” Moira said. “Heading Oasis security efforts and the like.”

 

“Busy?” El-Shazli said pleasantly. “I was busy before these attacks. Now, my friend, I am liable to drown in my work. If I collapse at my desk I’ll look to you to get me on my feet again.”

 

“Looking for an upgrade? A trip to my lab could get you stronger than you thought possible.”

 

He laughed at that, seemingly amused by the idea. His eyes darted down to her right hand, still purplish and scarred to the wrist. “I’ll keep my genes unscrambled if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“Your loss.”

 

El-Shazli stopped on the sidewalk as Moira approached her car. “Before you go, I had a question for you. If you don’t mind.”

 

“What is it?” she asked, turning to face him.

 

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about since yesterday. I’ve asked a few of the other Ministers as well, but I’m admittedly interested in your answer specifically. When the bombs dropped and we went into lockdown, each one of us in the city had a choice to make when the firewall came down: who to call first. To see if they were okay, and to let them know that we were safe as well. True?”

 

“True.”

 

“And it’s the strangest thing. I have a wife and two sons, each of whom I love. You would think that I would have called any of them first. But I called my older brother, who I haven’t even seen in months. I don’t know why, but his face was the first to come into my mind, and for whatever reason I wanted to hear his voice before anyone else’s. We all have loved ones—even you, O’Deorain. I’m simply curious as to who you called first.”

 

Moira stood there on the sidewalk, mouth drawn tight. She wondered why El-Shazli was asking her, and what he hoped to learn from her answer. But she had no interest in indulging him.

 

“No one.”

 

And with that, she got into the backseat of her car. She gave one last look to El-Shazli and raised her hand in parting before speeding off in the direction of home. Her driver didn’t say anything to her on the drive—he knew better than that by now. Moira leaned back, watching the city blur past her window, and thought about El-Shazli’s question in silence.

 

Moira hadn’t been lying in her answer to him—she truly hadn’t called anyone after the city gave the all-clear. But she’d wanted to. As she worked in her lab, trying to block out the screeching of sirens blaring from outside, she found her mind returning to the memories of days that had long since passed. From the very first notice of the bombs, Moira had wanted nothing more than to call Angela. Maybe just to feel like there was a single person in the world who might care to know that she was safe. She had resisted the urge, however. They’d done such a good job of ignoring each others’ existences for the past five years, it would be a shame to break that streak now. And Moira was nothing if not stubborn.

 

*

 

Moira stood in her living room and dialed the phone number for Reyes’ line at Talon HQ. It was different than the one she called last time, but she was used to that. Moira got new contact information in a drop whenever they made the change, and the rule was that if she didn’t call within three days of getting that new number, they would tear down HQ and relocate. Talon couldn’t risk the number falling into someone else’s hands and getting traced back to their base. She was cutting it close this time—it was just a few hours short of three days exactly since she’d received the new number in an encrypted email that deleted itself seconds after she opened it. But with the attacks, it had slipped her mind.

 

After a few rings someone picked up.

 

“¿Qué onda?”

 

 _Sombra,_ Moira realized with annoyance. Not Reyes, despite this being supposedly his number. This wasn’t the plan, and Moira hated going off-plan. Especially when calls to Talon were so few and far between these days. “Where’s Reyes?”

 

“Busy.” Moira could hear the smile in Sombra’s voice as she spoke. She was clearly enjoying herself—enjoying toying with Moira and being withholding. “What, am I not good enough for you?”

 

Moira ignored her. “Busy doing what? He was expecting this call.”

 

“Sorry, need to know basis only. All I can say is that he’s not here.”

 

“Need to know basis,” Moira repeated slowly, indignation coloring her tone. “I’m a member of the bloody inner council. Since when are there developments that I am no longer _allowed_ to know?”

 

Sombra laughed, and Moira had to restrain herself from hanging up the phone right then and there. This wouldn’t be the first time that she snapped at Sombra—the woman was a genius, but her attitude left much to be desired, and she was too much of an unknown to really be trusted. Although truth be told, Gabriel Reyes was the only person in Talon who Moira completely trusted.

 

“Since today,” Sombra answered. “We’ve all gotta follow the pecking order, Moira. Don’t take it personal.”

 

Moira sighed deeply, pinching at the bridge of her nose. She spoke slowly so as to measure her words as they came out and make sure she didn’t say anything too harsh. “I was calling to get a status report on the application recs and weapon schematics I sent over two weeks ago. Would you know anything about that?”

 

“Nope,” she said, popping the end of the word for emphasis.

 

“And you can’t tell me where he is or when he’ll be back.”

 

“You got it.”

 

Moira gripped the phone in her hand tighter, feeling her annoyance reach its breaking point. “Then there’s nothing for us to discuss. Have Reyes call me back when he’s decided not to waste my time.”

 

“Hey, don’t be like that!” Sombra protested. “I’ve got some intel for you.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Were you gonna say please?”

 

“Sombra—”

 

Another laugh, and then she was back to dishing. Sombra always _did_ like to show off the things she managed to dig up. “I’ve been doing some digging around into some former associates of yours, and I thought you might like to know something about that meeting you have on Friday. Free of charge. All you have to do is say thank you.”

 

“Which meeting?” Moira asked curtly, racking her brain to try to remember what her schedule was like for the rest of the week.

 

“The meeting with the Baghdadi delegation. Talking refugees, humanitarian assistance, all that fun stuff.”

 

Moira groaned, only just now remembering about it. There was no reason for her to be in that meeting at all, and she’d pushed back against the idea whenever it had been brought up. She was loathe to miss a whole day of work just to hear sob stories from refugees. But the Founders had insisted, and apparently one of the groups’ asks was to discuss medical research opportunities, so she would be there. She had no idea what would be interesting enough about that meeting to get Sombra so giddy.

 

“I remember now. What about it?”

 

Sombra hummed on the other line before getting close to the receiver and practically crooning the news. “Last minute roster change. Guest list got bumped for someone a bit higher on the food chain.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Ziegler’s gonna be there.”

 

Moira froze, phone glued to her ear. Angela. In Oasis? That didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t—she _wouldn’t_ —willingly walk into a meeting where she knew Moira would be. Would she? Breaking five years of silence for something as inconsequential as a meeting about Iraqi refugees? What was her game?

 

“So?” Sombra asked, snapping Moira out of her thoughts. “What do you say? I think that earned a thanks.”

 

“Thank you,” Moira whispered. She hung up and tossed the phone on the couch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be found procrastinating writing [here](https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/)
> 
> \---
> 
> this fic happened entirely because of [this hilarious poll](https://www.strawpoll.me/15180078) from dykemoira on tumblr, and it got me thinking about moira/mercy getting married and divorcing and getting together again and uhhh yeah. post-divorce reconciliation fic, why not??


	2. Chapter 2

Angela couldn’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief as the seemingly endless desert finally gave way to signs of civilization. The armored van she was riding in, which had been jostling about as it drove over dunes and was battered by wind, ran smoother now that there was proper road to drive on. In the distance she could see Oasis coming better into view—it had been on the edge of the horizon for what felt like the longest time, but only now was she finally able to make out distinct shapes of its skyline. The sun was beating down on the gold and marble of the city’s towers, and from this far away it seemed almost like a shimmering mirage.

 

She imagined that it would look even more opulent once they got in the city itself. Oasis wasn’t known for its modesty. Angela had seen pictures, but pictures often paled in comparison to the real thing, and she was sure that this would be no exception. She was determined not to come across as a starry-eyed tourist, though, no matter how impressive everything turned out to be. She was here on business, after all.

 

From the backseat, Peter let out a low whistle. He leaned forward, peering through the windshield to get a better view of the approaching city. The glare of the sun ahead of them reflected off the lenses of his eyeglasses. “Hell of a view, huh Ziegler?”

 

“It’s beautiful,” Angela said softly. “A bit surreal, seeing so much gold in the middle of the desert.”

 

Peter barked out a laugh and sat back again. “No kidding. It’s even weirder once you’re inside, I promise. Feels like you’re in a different country.”

 

“Do you come here often?”

 

“Not so much, but I’ve been a handful of times. An old friend of mine does R&D in the Ministry of Chemistry, so if I’m in the neighborhood I like to drop in. But it’s such a hassle to get here, you know?”

 

Angela nodded distractedly. “A ten hour drive through the desert isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, I’m sure.”

 

“Although that’s the point, I guess. A city like this wasn’t built to be a tourist trap—those Ministers like their privacy and all. Still, I can’t believe you’ve never been before.”

 

“I suppose I just never got around to it.”

 

Somehow, the prospect of crossing the Iraqi desert to visit a city partially run by her ex-wife hadn’t particularly appealed to Angela Ziegler. As a doctor and a scientist she’d always wanted to see Oasis, but never so much that she could justify the risk of running into Moira again.

 

Peter gave her a sympathetic look. He almost undoubtedly knew about Moira—it would have been in Angela’s dossier. “Well this’ll be a treat. You’ll have plenty of time to sightsee.”

 

Angela stared straight ahead and tapped at her knee in an uneven rhythm. She’d been able to keep herself distracted well enough in preparation for this trip, but she was quickly becoming overcome with nerves. This afternoon’s meeting on its own would be a non-issue, but Angela and Peter would be in Oasis for a full three days. That was a lot of time to fill, and Angela wasn’t sure that she’d be able to avoid Moira for all of them. She wasn’t even sure that _avoiding_ her was what she really wanted to do. As with all things related to Moira, Angela’s feelings were complicated.

 

She settled into an uneasy silence for the rest of the ride, lost in thoughts about the past.

 

*

 

They were met at the border of the city by staff from the Ministry of Security. Angela smiled at them as they approached, but it wasn’t returned. As some officers went around the back of the van to search their bags and another checked her driver’s documentation, a woman in a crisp navy pantsuit walked up to Angela’s door. She knocked once on the window and held her hand out for Angela’s ID once it was lowered. Peter passed his forward as well.

 

The woman inspected both before handing them back and finally cracking a smile. “Dr. Ziegler and Deputy Commissioner Halleran, welcome to Oasis.”

 

“Thank you,” Angela answered. She looked back at an officer who was picking through the contents of her suitcase. “This is quite a welcome party.”

 

Peter spoke up. “You were expecting us, yes? Our schedules didn’t get crossed or anything?”

 

“Not at all,” the woman assured him. “This is simply procedure. You can never be too careful these days.”

 

“You mean after the bombs?” Angela asked.

 

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched slightly, and her eyes hardened a bit. She probably found it in poor taste for Angela to explicitly mention the incident. “Exactly. But not to worry, you’ll be safe here.”

 

Angela knew better than to believe a false promise like that. She’d spent too many years in the thick of war to ever think that anyone was safe anywhere. But it would be condescending to say that, so instead she pocketed her ID card and said, “I’m sure we will be. Thank you again.”

 

The woman gestured for the two of them to exit the van and helped Angela down. “I radioed the Ministers that you were here as soon as we saw your van driving up. We’ll be taking you right to the meeting from here. We have a car past the checkpoint if you’ll follow me.”

 

“Ministers, as in plural?” Peter asked as he hopped down onto the sand. “I thought we were just meeting with Amir.”

 

“There’s been a change in schedule,” the woman explained as she waved their van off to a nearby refueling station. “Security Minister El-Shazli will be attending instead of Minister Amir, and he’ll be joined by Ministers Al-Shahrani and O’Deorain.”

 

Angela nearly stopped in her tracks. Even under the glaring sun, she still felt something like a shiver run through her body. Moira was going to be in her meeting? She was going to be there, looking at Angela, maybe even speaking to her? The concept made no sense. This was a humanitarian petition; it was a meeting that was going to focus around families and good faith and appealing to the sympathy of her audience. This was exactly the type of meeting that Moira would have gone to great lengths to miss. Did she know that Angela would be there, too? The appointment had only been made for Peter originally—Angela was only brought on to accompany him a few days ago. Orders from on high, she’d been told. That couldn’t possibly mean...

 

“Why?” she asked, earning a backwards look from Peter and the woman. “I don’t—this is a meeting about refugees. Why does the Minister of Genetics need to be there?”

 

The woman searched Angela’s face, obviously curious as to what about the news had garnered such a reaction. Maybe she was one of the blessed few who didn’t know about what she and Moira used to be. “That decision’s above my paygrade, ma’am,” she said curtly.

 

“Of course.” Angela’s voice sounded far-off and small. “I understand.”

 

Their escort turned on her heel and proceeded to the checkpoint. After being ushered through, they all got into a nondescript black cruiser. It was soundless as it started up, with miniaturized jump jet technology propelling the tires a few inches from the surface of the road.  This invention alone had net Oasis billions in international trade in the past three years since the Ministry of Transportation launched the project.

 

Peter sensed Angela’s nervousness and helped keep her distracted on the ride over, talking about his chemist friend and listing off recommendations for dinner. Angela appreciated it, but her mind wasn’t truly focused on anything but Moira. They were going to see each other again, after all this time. Under the oddest of circumstances, but that didn’t matter now. Angela didn’t know if she wanted to cry or try to jump out of the car. She was scared, slightly terrified, of seeing Moira. Too much had been said and not said the last time they were together, and Angela had assumed that she’d be going the rest of her life with those regrets at her back. But now? A not entirely small part of her felt something akin to relief.

 

They were at the Ministry of Security in under ten minutes, having taken access tunnels and side roads that were reserved for Ministry business only. The woman didn’t get out of the car, merely pushed a button that opened the passenger doors and giving Angela and Peter instructions on how to reach their meeting room.

 

Angela walked through the building in a daze, clutching at her papers like they were her only lifeline. Peter took the lead for her, walking briskly through the Ministry’s long corridors and up the stairs in search of their room. They found it quickly enough.

 

A tall man with a short military buzz cut and close-cropped dark beard was waiting outside, presumably to greet them. The bright white and gold of his kaftan played off the brown of his skin handsomely, and the Ministry sigil on the arm of it signalled that he was staff. He cocked his head and smiled as Angela and Peter approached. He gave off an easygoing air that most military men lacked, and Angela imagined that he was mistaken for a civilian quite often. But she’d done her research. This was Minister Omar El-Shazli.

 

“Minister,” she said warmly, trying to push down her nerves and appear normal. She extended her hand for him to shake. “Dr. Angela Ziegler from Médecins Sans Frontières. So good of you to meet us.”

 

El-Shazli smiled wider and shook. “Of course, I would hardly pass up a chance to meet the famous Mercy herself.”

 

Angela felt the familiar twinge of annoyance that always cropped up when someone used her old callsign. “I don’t really go by that anymore, I’m afraid.”

 

“Well, all the same,” he said amiably. “You have some admirers in Oasis. We’re glad to have you here.”

 

“Admirers?” Angela asked.

 

“Oh, you’ll meet them in good time, I’m sure.” He gave her hand one more squeeze before turning to Peter. “And Deputy Commissioner Halleran, it’s been too long.”

 

Peter grinned and clapped El-Shazli on the shoulder. “Omar, good to see you. You look well rested now that you’re out of New York.”

 

“Well rested now that I don’t have to deal with you on a regular basis, perhaps,” he joked before motioning to the wide double doors behind them. “But come, my colleagues are looking forward to meeting you both.”

 

Somehow, Angela doubted the truth of that statement.

 

They were ushered into the conference room from there, and Angela felt oddly light as she crossed the threshold. It was a large room with a polished wood conference table in the center and wide windows that offered a bird’s eye view of the street below. Standing in front of the table was a small woman with a long black braid. Angela had met her before, however briefly, at a World Health Organization symposium years back. Co-founder of Oasis and Minister of Geology, Dr. Anya Al-Shahrani.

 

And at the edge of the room, eyes locked on Angela, was Moira.

 

*

 

Angela’s throat felt dry. She looked out across the conference table at each of the assembled Ministers and felt wholly outmatched. It was silly to feel that way, she knew, but the feeling was there all the same. She was thrown off, too distracted by her proximity to Moira to properly focus on anything else. Moira had managed to not look at Angela once since they had sat down and begun the meeting; Angela hadn’t been so lucky. She was sure that she looked quite ridiculous, staring the way she was. But it was hard not to.

 

Moira was as alluring as ever. Her hard lines and angles hadn’t softened with time; her cheekbones were still high and defined, mouth still downturned in a natural frown. Her skin didn’t have the unhealthy pallor it used to back when things were getting rough—when Blackwatch was on the brink of falling apart and she and Angela began to lash out at each other for no real reason other than exhaustion and fear. There were freckles, faint but still noticeable, cropping up along her nose and the planes of her cheeks now. Likely due to all the sun in Oasis. Angela thought they were charming, although she knew that Moira found her freckles childish. She still had her trademark red hair, combed back and away from her face. There were strands of gray among the red now, which hadn’t been there before. Angela found it lovely.

 

Al-Shahrani pulled Angela from her distraction with the question, “And you, Dr. Ziegler? Do you agree with your colleague that Oasis owes residency to these refugees?”

 

“I do,” Angela said, trying to snap herself back to attention. “Resettlement in Oasis would be in line with the 2064 Iraqi-Jordanian IDP agreement. These refugees are Jordanian nationals; legally, they have a right to come to Iraq.”

 

“Iraq, yes. Oasis, not necessarily.”

 

Angela opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Moira.

 

“Oasis is not subject to the Iraqi government’s laws in any way other than matters that affect our shared border. As such, we’re under no obligation to fulfill any commitments they may have made regarding refugee resettlement.” She raised an eyebrow at Angela expectantly. “But of course you already knew this.”

 

Angela paused, trying to keep her face expressionless. It had been so long since she’d heard Moira’s voice. “This isn’t a question of legal obligation, Moira. Minister,” Angela corrected quickly, not wanting to seem too informal in front of the rest of them. “Your obligation is a moral one.”

 

“ _Morality_ is subjective. Oasis isn’t in the business of falling on our swords for charity.”

 

“Letting a couple dozen people into your city is hardly falling on your sword,” Angela shot back. “These people are doctors. They can _help_ you.”

 

Moira scoffed. “As if we don’t have doctors here already.”

 

“I’ve worked with these men and women,” Angela insisted. “They bettered my organization and saved lives and now they want to come to Oasis to keep helping people. Would it be so wrong to let them?”

 

Peter fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the way that Angela’s combative tone was goading Moira on. She was getting riled up, she knew, but this was the way that Moira got her. When she was being purposefully difficult, anyway. Peter cleared his throat and pulled some papers from his binder. “I hope you’ll forgive us if we seem overzealous, Minister. Dr. Ziegler and I simply feel quite strongly about these matters.”

 

Moira cast Peter a withering look and returned to her notes. Peter seemed almost grateful for that, and directed his comments to the other Ministers while Moira scribbled away. Angela couldn’t see what she was writing from so far across the table, but she was almost certain that she was going over lab notes. Moira was notorious for that back when they were still together—going dead to the world and intently writing away at the dinner table, in bed, on vacation. Angela would honestly be surprised if Moira had somehow kicked that habit in the years since.

 

Angela continued to watch Moira and wondered what, if anything, had changed about her in the past five years. It was a long time, and plenty of things had changed _around_ them since Overwatch had failed. Since their marriage had failed. It would only make sense that Moira was a different person from the one that Angela had known, but she also had a sneaking suspicion that Moira was exactly the same. People like Moira were too stubborn to let the world change them too much. Angela used to think that she was one of those people, too.

 

Next to Moira, El-Shazli leaned back and appraised the list of headshots and resumes that Peter had brought. “Explain to me, if you will, why these highly qualified persons can’t simply file an application of residency. Why the high level intervention on their behalf?”

 

“They’ve all applied already,” Angela said, perking up and pulling her attention away from Moira. “Months and months back. They were denied by your Ministry before we agreed to help plead their case.”

 

“Then that should be the end of the discussion, no?” Minister El-Shazli asked with a lazy smile. “If my people have already determined that these applicants pose a public safety risk…”

 

Peter shook his head, flipping through his own copies. “None of them were denied on national security grounds, as far as I can tell. Your Ministry keeps your investigation reports rather vague to the public, but denials based on terrorism or public safety concerns also automatically bar them from entering Oasis on a temporary visa. Unless that policy’s changed?”

 

“It hasn’t.”

 

“Well all of these applicants applied for short-term research visas, and they were approved. Regardless of why you denied them for permanent residency the first time, it seems that your own Ministry agrees that these people aren’t dangerous.”

 

El-Shazli rubbed at his beard before speaking again. The rest of the meeting proceeded much the same way—with Angela and Peter making moral appeals only to have their arguments flipped for the sake of ‘pragmatism.’ This was precisely why Angela never came to these types of things. No one’s mind was ever changed, and it only got under her skin. But thankfully Moira kept at her notes for the rest of the discussion, which meant that Angela was more or less able to focus.

 

When the conversation more or less died down and it was clear that there was nothing new to say, Al-Shahrani clapped her hands and adjourned. Despite the tensions of the meeting, she still shook hands with Angela and Peter warmly, giving Angela a particularly emphatic _thank you for coming._

 

El-Shazli did the same, saying his goodbyes before dashing away to another meeting down the hall. Only Moira remained, still lost in her journal. Angela watched her out of the corner of her eye as she gathered her papers and got ready to go. Would she really let Angela go without saying goodbye? Did she really have nothing she _wanted_ to say?

 

Peter was holding the door open for Angela when Moira finally spoke up.

 

“Angela,” she said, and the sound of her name coming out of those lips for the first time in years set Angela’s head spinning. “A moment?”

 

Angela nodded quickly before she found the words. “Sure. Of course.” She turned to Peter anxiously. “You don’t mind, do you?”

 

Peter looked between the two of them searchingly, although his tone when he spoke was friendly as always. “Not at all. I’ll see you tomorrow? For that appointment at the Embassy.”

 

“Eleven o’clock,” Angela agreed. “I’ll be there.”

 

Peter left, and the sound of the door closing behind him set Angela’s heart beating. It meant that now they were really alone. She watched as Moira closed her journal and stood up to face her. Angela wished she knew what was appropriate for something like this—a hug? Handshake? She felt frozen in place, and she hoped desperately that Moira couldn’t sense her indecision.

 

Moira came to stand a few inches away from Angela, looming over her as she always did. She didn’t seem unhappy. That was a blessing, at least.

 

“You look well, Moira,” she said finally. “I’m glad to see you.”

 

Moira made a soft, disbelieving noise. “Are you really?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And is that why you came all this way? Just to see me?”

 

Angela frowned, confused by the question. “You know why I’m here. Peter and I are here lobbying for refugee resettlement.”

 

“You don’t expect that I’d actually believe that, did you?”

 

“There’s nothing to believe. You were right here in the meeting. I didn’t even know you’d be sitting in until an hour ago—as I said, I’m glad to see you, but _this_ is why I’m here.”

 

“This,” Moira gestured vaguely at the conference room. “This is trivial. Tell me the real reason.”

 

“Trivial,” Angela bristled as she tossed the word back and narrowed her eyes. “Since when is protecting displaced war refugees trivial?”

 

“For someone like you? Always.”

 

“What do you mean by _someone like me?”_

 

Moira’s eyebrows knit together as she fixed Angela with an expression that seemed to ask why she was asking such a stupid question. “Someone brilliant. And important. And far too good to be wasting their time in a boilerplate meeting like this.”

 

Angela paused, embarrassingly thrown by the compliment she hadn’t been expecting. She realized that she’d been clenching her fist without meaning to and relaxed it as she tried to find a suitable response. This was Moira’s specialty—compliments with a barb behind them that left you flustered by the praise but insulted by the implication. After five years, Angela had almost forgotten.

 

Moira huffed, having taken Angela’s silence for an insult. “Fine then, don’t tell me.”

 

Angela could recognize the tone of Moira’s voice and the way she put her hand on her hip as she sighed. She felt like she was getting toyed with, and she was probably about to leave. Angela wanted desperately to keep her in the room. It had been so long since they’d spoken, she didn’t want this to be all they had for a new memory.

 

“You’re not going to ruin these doctors’ applications just because you’re mad at me, are you?” Angela asked lightly, grinning at the end to show Moira that she wasn’t upset.

 

“As if I would,” Moira answered. “Besides, it’s not my decision. This has nothing to do with my department.”

 

“Then why were you here?”

 

“Anya insisted. And even I have a boss.”

 

Angela smiled. “She seems friendlier than Gabriel, anyway.”

 

“Most people are,” Moira said flatly. She ran her fingers through her hair before looking down at Angela. “Well, I asked you to stay back so I could figure out what you’re after here. But if you insist there’s nothing, I’m needed elsewhere.”

 

She turned to walk away, and Angela moved to follow.

 

“Moira,” she said firmly. “You would really go, just like that?”

 

“I would.” Moira’s voice was unbothered, but her back was still turned. “Perhaps you’ll visit Oasis five years from now and we can do this all over again.”

 

Angela stood with her hand on the table and let out a sigh. Why had she chosen to marry someone so devoted to being dramatic? Why did she miss it?

 

“You’re still so...difficult.”

 

“And you’re still so naïve.” Moira turned back around, the ghost of a smile lighting up her face. “Isn’t that nice? To think that five years have changed us so little.”

 

“I’ve changed,” Angela insisted.

 

“Is that right? And just how are you different, angel?”

 

It was an excellent question, and not one Angela truly felt able to answer. On some days she felt like she was the same woman she was when she joined Overwatch, full of optimism and willing to push her reservations aside in the name of the greater good. But some days she saw herself much more jaded than that, worn down by all the infighting and violence and pain that her association with Overwatch had brought. But regardless of the day, Angela knew that some things _had_ changed. She was bolder now, less afraid to say what she wanted.

 

Moira was still infuriating, but she affected Angela in ways that no one had been able to since. She was in town for three days. She may as well see where those feelings took her.

 

She squared Moira with a clear gaze and flashed a small smile. “I’ll tell you if you’d like. Over dinner.”

 

Moira laughed, and Angela felt a rush of self-satisfaction. Not many people could make Moira O’Deorain laugh, but Angela always could.

 

“I’m taking you to dinner now?”

 

Angela squared her shoulders and smirked. “You are. And you’re paying, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be found procrastinating writing [here](https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/)
> 
> \---
> 
> hey the comments on last chapter were so nice and really pushed me to get this chapter out ASAP, so thanks everyone. in the end, we are all sluts for moira


	3. Chapter 3

To the surprise of absolutely no one who knew her, Moira O’Deorain wasn’t much one for dates. Or relationships in general. Angela had been the one, shining exception to that rule, but beyond that Moira could never be bothered to put too much effort into another person. Moira had taken lovers before Angela, but they were few and far between. It was no one’s fault but Moira’s, really. She was selective, cerebral, critical, and altogether _too damn busy_ for distractions, and her interest waned quickly once she decided that a simple flirtation was becoming more trouble than it was worth. In the time since her divorce, Moira had signed off of such distractions completely. She kept more or less to herself in Oasis, and people seemed happy to let her stay that way.

 

And yet here she was, adjusting her tie for what felt like the hundredth time that evening and watching the street below for any sign of Angela’s car pulling up on the corner. This wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. Simply a opportunity to catch up, ex-wife to ex-wife. This was really a courtesy, when all was said and done. Angela was in town, she wanted dinner, and Moira had money to burn. It just made sense. Assigning any special meaning behind it would be foolish and derivative. So why was it, then, that Moira was suddenly so concerned with checking her appearance in the mirror every few seconds? And why had she been entirely unable to focus on any work back at the Ministry today since she and Angela made plans to meet?

 

She’d tried her best, of course. She had more than enough work to keep herself occupied, particularly since dealing with bureaucratic fallout from the bombings had forced her to spend more time away from the lab this week than she’d ever allowed herself before. But she’d been entirely thrown by seeing Angela, and mulling over the prospect of dinner had ended up consuming her entire afternoon.

 

Moira sighed to herself and adjusted the lapel of her jacket. She was only wearing a simple black suit and tie, but it had still taken her an embarrassingly long time to get ready. She’d struggled to find something to wear that was more nondescript than her Minister’s robes, more impressive than her lab clothes, and still neutral enough that she wouldn’t send any wrong signals. After all, this wasn’t a date, and she shouldn’t dress like it was. Moira’s wardrobe wasn’t overflowing with options by any means—all told, the sum of her clothes took up just over half a rack’s worth of space—and so she’d chosen the suit. And if she remembered that Angela had always liked the sight of her in suits, it certainly hadn’t factored into her decision. Not at all.

 

Peering down from the window adjacent to her table, Moira watched people ambling past on the street below with muted interest. It was intriguing to see Oasis citizens enjoying their Friday night like people would in any other city. Hailing taxis, chatting on the phone, walking hand in hand with a companion. It all seemed so normal, and it almost surprised her to realize that for all the press’ bluster, Oasis was in many ways a city like any other. Moira was admittedly very removed from the more average aspects of Oasis life. Her time in the city was spent in the lab, at home, or attending to Ministry business. She had neither the time nor desire to do anything else. Even eating out was a rarity. This was perhaps the third or fourth time in a year that she’d had dinner plans with anyone at all.

 

It was an odd feeling—sitting at the table, perusing the menu, impatiently waiting for Angela. Moira couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that they had chanced upon each other again so arbitrarily. The years they’d been apart had passed oddly, but seeing Angela that afternoon still felt like there were oceans of time between them. And yet they’d fallen back into their old rhythm without missing a beat. Moira still knew how to get under Angela’s skin, which was something she’d always enjoyed doing. She was harsher on the refugee issue than she’d intended to be, but there was something so amusing about watching Angela get more and more impassioned as she tried to outplay Moira’s arguments. Back when they were still together, some of their best breakthroughs at work had come from fighting about them at home.

 

And to her credit, Angela still knew how to throw Moira off her game as well. Moira had been entirely prepared to walk out of that room after the meeting and leave her there, but Angela had gotten her to stay with a smile and a few words. She didn’t ask her to dinner, either. She _told_ her that they’d have dinner. That interaction alone was so reminiscent of their early days together that it put Moira in a reflective mood. People tended to assume that Moira would be the pursuer in an affair; they couldn’t be blamed for that, not when she wielded her confidence so heavily. But in reality, their relationship had been predicated on Angela—not Moira—making all the first moves. Moira was cold and standoffish, and she preferred to be that way. No one would ever accuse her of being overly sentimental. But it seemed that she remained, as always, wrapped around Angela’s finger.

 

After a few more minutes, Angela arrived. She caught Moira’s eye as she got to the top of the stairs and took in the empty room with raised eyebrows before crossing to their table. She was wearing a blue cotton dress, light and stopping just above her knees. Her hair hung loose and wavy just past her shoulders in the way that Moira had always liked it. The years had been kind to her; she looked indescribably lovely. Moira kept her face still and returned to the menu.

 

Angela settled into her seat across from Moira and smiled. “Hello again.”

 

“Good evening.”

 

“I admit, I’m almost surprised that you’re actually here.”

 

“You thought I’d stand you up?”

 

“I thought you’d cancel. Getting you to dinner was always like pulling teeth. I assumed that wouldn’t have changed.”

 

Moira was suddenly struck with memories of earlier days—she and Angela flipping coins to decide who would have to try their hand at cooking dinner that night; Moira setting timers, at Angela’s insistence, to remind herself to eat on the days when Angela was working late or away on active duty; eating together in bed as they talked through work problems and traded lab notes. Between their constant trips overseas, separate places of work, and the unpredictable nature of their schedules, they very rarely found the time or opportunity to eat together at all, especially when they were still living separately. Moira could probably count on one hand the number of times throughout the span of their entire relationship that they had been able to sit down and have a normal dinner in public like this. Funny that they would finally have time for each other once they’d already divorced.

 

Angela looked around the empty dining area and glanced out the window at the view of the city Moira had been admiring a few minutes prior. “The view up here is lovely. I’m surprised no one else wanted to use the upstairs.”

 

“I’m sure they did, but I had them cleared out.”

 

Angela let out a small disbelieving laugh, looking at Moira like she couldn’t tell if she was joking. “You didn’t.”

 

“Not me personally, no,” Moira said casually. “But the owner certainly did.”

 

“That’s a little dramatic, no?”

 

Moira shrugged. “You’re dining with a Minister tonight, Dr. Ziegler. That awards you certain privileges. And privacy.”

 

“Privileges?” Angela asked with amusement. “Like what?”

 

Moira slid the drink menu across the table. “Like top shelf wine, for one. You still prefer red, I hope?”

 

Angela smiled and took the menu. “I do.” She scanned the listings for a moment before looking back up at Moira in surprise.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

“No, it’s just—this is all so expensive.”

 

“What do you care? I’m paying, remember?”

 

“I didn’t really mean that,” she said, seeming slightly embarrassed. “You know I’ll pay for myself.”

 

“Nonsense,” Moira said with a frown. “Pick something that you’d like and that’s the end of it.”

 

Angela regarded Moira over the top of the menu with a small smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes ma’am,” she muttered.

 

*

 

Conversation and wine flowed freely from there, with much less stiffness than Moira had been expecting. Angela was the same—pleasant to talk to, generous with her laughter, humorous without ever being biting. She had a million questions and Moira was happy to answer them however she could.

 

There were questions she knew not to ask, though, and there were things that Moira purposefully held back from saying. Meaning, specifically, that they didn’t discuss Overwatch. They both seemed to understand that breaching the subject would be inherently painful. Moira knew from Sombra that Angela was still in contact with a number of her old colleagues from those old days, but there was no way that she knew of Moira’s continued association with Talon. That put their dinner at what felt like an uneven slant; Moira knew much more about Angela’s life since their separation than Angela knew about Moira’s.

 

Still, Moira was willing to fill in the gaps where they were appropriate. As was usually the case, what were meant to be short answers to simple questions about Moira’s work turned into lengthy monologues about ongoing projects, confounding academic discourse, and how one of her experiments connected to another which required even _more_ explanation. Moira had a reputation for being tight-lipped, but that didn’t extend to discussions of her research. Most of her colleagues knew by now not to ask her questions about work if they didn’t have at least twenty minutes to spare. Without even realizing it, what was meant to be a simple explanation of a current experiment her lab was running ballooned into a further discussion of the MoGen, and once all those tangents had run their course she and Angela had both gone through their meals and four glasses of wine between themselves. If it was almost anyone else, they would have begun tuning Moira out ages ago.

 

And yet, despite that, Angela didn’t mind. She listened intently, speaking up every now and then to ask a follow-up question or offer her own opinion. It was refreshing. Very few people could match Moira in conversation, but Angela had always been able to without breaking a sweat.

 

Finally Moira leaned back, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin and flashing Angela with an uncharacteristically apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’m sure there’s more you wanted to discuss than all this.”

 

Angela grinned, plucking the last bit of bread from the basket in the center of the table. “I don’t mind. You wouldn’t find my work all that interesting, so I’d prefer to talk about yours anyway.”

 

“I might find it interesting.”

 

“Did you find today’s meeting interesting?” Angela paused for effect and giggled at Moira’s silence. “Then there you go.”

 

“Regardless, this is supposed to be a dinner, not a sermon. If you were looking for a lecture I could have simply mailed you my last paper and spared you the trip.”

 

“There's no need. I've already read it, actually.”

 

“You have?” Surprise flickered across Moira’s face before she could help it.

 

Her paper hadn’t courted the same level of controversy as the one that originally propelled her into Blackwatch’s orbit, but it had made its own splash within the field. Not as large as she’d been hoping for, but that was in large part due to people still looking at her name as a sign of damaged goods. Still, Angela had moved away from academia in their time apart, and it was surprising that she would have even known that Moira had published anything at all.

 

“Of course I did,” Angela said simply. “I still have my hard copy lying about my flat somewhere. I even marked it like I used to. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

 

Old habits indeed. When they were married, Angela liked to joke that she was Moira’s unofficial editor. She was always going through Moira’s writing and cutting it down, making it more accessible and less pedantic. Moira could see that image clearly—Angela stretched out on the couch as she ran through Moira’s drafts with red ink, scrawling along the margins with suggestions and rewrites of sentences. To think that she would still do that even after they had broken up struck Moira as unbearably touching.

 

Before Moira could find a suitable response, Angela glanced around and switched subjects completely.

 

“I meant to ask,” she said brightly, “this restaurant is by the lake, isn’t it? I thought I saw a waterway from the car.”

 

“This is right on the water, in fact.” Moira nodded towards a wood-paneled door on the other end of the room. “You can see it from the balcony.”

 

Angela’s eyes lit up as she followed Moira’s line of sight. “Can we see it? I bet it’s beautiful at night.”

 

“We can. Bring your wine or the waiter will snatch it.”

 

“As if I’d leave it,” Angela grinned. She emptied the rest of the bottle into her glass and set towards the balcony with Moira following behind.

 

Moira only felt really comfortable in Oasis when the sun was down. Be it her Irish blood or her lifelong hatred of being sweaty, everything in the city ran a bit too hot for her by day. But once evening fell, the temperatures dropped considerably. And at risk of being sentimental, she’d always enjoyed the sight of the moon reflected off the Pinnaret. Angela clearly did as well, judging by the way her eyes lit up as she stepped out onto the balcony. They were immediately greeted by a pleasantly cool breeze that ruffled the hem of Angela’s dress and filled Moira’s head with the scent of water lilies. One hand on the railing and the other clutching at her wine glass, Angela peered across the water happily. Moira leaned with her elbow on the rail, watching Angela more than the water. The water would be here long after Angela left, after all. She would have plenty of time to look later.

 

“What are those boats?” Angela asked, pointing in the direction of some catamarans hugging the coastline.

 

“Nighttime cruises are quite popular. This lake bleeds into a river which runs into a tributary which leads to an even bigger lake. It’s all the Pinnaret, though. This and the gardens were Hassoun’s biggest pet projects.”

 

Angela took another sip of wine, seemingly unaware of Moira’s staring. “Stunning,” she murmured. “All of this, in the middle of a desert. If I didn’t know any better I’d think this was a natural lake.”

 

“What nature lacks, science can provide.”

 

“You should put that on a fortune cookie,” Angela said cheekily.

 

Moira laughed, wondering how long it had been since someone could make her do that as easily as Angela could. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

 

Angela turned to look up at Moira. Even in her heels, she still had to crane her neck to make proper eye contact. Moira’s smile eventually faded, and then they were just staring at each other in silence. The wind was tousling Angela’s hair gently, and for a moment Moira wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch the woman who she used to share a life with. But she didn't. Instead she simply met Angela’s gaze without expectation, just content to be sharing a moment again.

 

“Moira,” Angela said.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you happy here?”

 

Moira didn’t entirely know what to answer. It was quite possibly the first time anyone had asked her that since she arrived in Oasis. People asked her how she was doing of course—if she was satisfied with a project, if she needed more funding or time to hit a deadline. But asking about her emotional state? Rare and rarer still. Because who other than Angela would ever even _think_ to ask Moira if she was happy? Who other than Angela would care?

 

“I have resources here,” she answered after a moment. “Room to stretch out and pursue my work. Colleagues who respect me.”

 

Angela cocked her head slightly and rolled the stem of her glass between her thumb and finger. “That wasn’t what I asked. Are you happy?”

 

Moira frowned as she thought about it. “I suppose so,” she said finally. Which was a true enough answer. If she was unhappy, it had nothing to do with her job or location. If anything, it was simply because Moira had never been all that prone to happiness. It wasn’t her natural state. But she knew objectively that things were better for her in Oasis than they ever had been, and she had no reason to complain.

 

Watching Moira intently, Angela nodded. “Well. That’s good.”

 

There was no way to tell if that was the answer Angela had been hoping for. “And you?” Moira asked.

 

“Am I happy?” Angela flashed a wry smile and looked back out to the water. “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

 

“You don’t enjoy your work?”

 

“No, I do,” Angela said, not altogether convincingly. “It’s important and it keeps me busy, anyway. But it’s just—there’s no end to it. Anytime I think I’ve made a difference and put out one fire, hundreds more die somewhere across the world where I can’t help them. It’s the nature of it all, I know, but still. It’s hard for me. You know how I am.”

 

Moira _did_ know how Angela was. Idealistic to the point of irrationality. Brilliant to the point of genius. Determined to the point of stubbornness. It was a perfect storm of characteristics that left her so hopeful about the world and humanity that any perceived injustice was seen as a personal affront. Angela was the kind of person destined to spend her life trying to make others happy, but always fall short of fully achieving it herself. Or at least she would be, if Moira believed in childish things like destiny.

 

Since the beginning, Moira saw all of the dark spaces living in Angela that she wanted so desperately to hide from the world, and Angela saw the soft spots of Moira’s that she was content to pretend didn’t exist. They were perfectly matched.

 

“You’re wasted in your position.”

 

“Wasted is a bit harsh, Moira,” Angela sighed. “I’m helping people.”

 

“Your problem,” Moira insisted, “is your obsession with being on the front lines. Whether it’s patching up bullet wounds in the dust or toadying around a boardroom with executives and insignificant officials.”

 

“Like you?”

 

Moira ignored the jab and continued. “You belong in the lab. Not in front of cameras or risking your life in a bloody warzone. Chasing innovations, bucking the dogma holding our field back— _that_ should be your focus. Spending your time anywhere else is a waste, and always has been. You don’t need me to tell you that, angel.”

 

This speech was almost humorously familiar, and as she spoke Moira felt that she could probably recite it in her sleep. How many times had Moira and Angela gone over this between themselves in the past? Blackwatch had suited Moira with its privacy and free-wheeling oversight, but Overwatch proper had chafed at Angela. She was always itching to be on active duty, never satisfied to work at base and hone her research. It had infuriated Moira to no end.

 

Angela smiled faintly, regarding Moira curiously. “Angel,” she said slowly. “It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”

 

“Force of habit.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Angela emptied the rest of the wine in her glass and set it down carefully by her feet. She swayed a little bit as the righted herself, the light pinking of her cheeks and chest an unmistakable sign that the alcohol had officially gone to her head. That realization made Moira nervous—Angela tended to be more honest when she was drunk. More willing to egg Moira on and test her limits.

 

Almost as if she could sense what Moira was thinking, Angela took a step closer to her.

 

“Is this hard for you?” she asked. “Being here with me like this.”

 

Moira felt heat slowly rising to her cheeks at both the question and Angela’s proximity. She simply shook her head, unsure of what to say that wouldn’t betray just how glad she was to be there.

 

A grateful smile lighting her face, and Angela came to a stop a few inches away from Moira. “You know, I was so scared about seeing you today. But things feel normal, oddly enough. Talking to you doesn’t feel strained at all. It feels easy, like it used to.”

 

“Most don’t consider me to be an easy talker.”

 

“Well most weren’t married to you, either,” Angela grinned. “I suppose I’m the exception.”

 

“That you are.”

 

Carefully, Angela settled against Moira’s chest, head resting along the plane of her collarbone. She sighed, and Moira ducked her head down so that her chin was resting on the top of Angela’s head. She breathed in the scent of her hair gently. This should feel wrong. But just like Angela had said, it felt normal— _easy_ —as if they’d never been apart. As if this was something they did all the time.

 

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Angela said softly. “No one gets me as angry as you used to, but I still miss you. Is that silly, after all this time?”

 

“No.” Moira wanted to pull Angela closer, but resisted. She wanted to see where Angela was going with all this first.  “I am surprised, though.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Last time we spoke, you said you couldn’t stand to look at me. You wouldn’t even let me touch you.”

 

Angela scoffed, but kept her head where it was on Moira’s chest. “That was five years ago. You and I both said some hurtful things, if you’ll remember.”

 

“I do remember.”

 

In a lot of ways, that period of Moira’s life felt like a blur. There was too much happening all at once— Blackwatch coming to light, followed by her association with it, the things she’d done falling under scrutiny of the public, hearing of the things she’d never done but was being accused of all the same—and so the finer details of most of that year were lost on her looking back. But she remembered Angela, and she remembered how they started hurting each other just for the chance to feel some petty version of power. It didn’t make them feel any better, but they never considered stopping.

 

Angela pressed a little closer and sighed again. “And anyway, you didn’t try to _touch_ me that last time, Moira. You tried to shake my hand. Who shakes hands after signing divorce papers?”

 

“I was trying to be polite.”

 

“By that point I wasn’t really looking for polite.” Moira couldn’t see Angela’s face, but she could hear the smile in her voice. “And either way, a handshake was the wrong decision.”

 

“Oh?” Moira let the familiarity of the moment get the better of her and brought her hand up to cup the back of Angela’s head. Angela shivered slightly at the touch. “And what would have been more appropriate?”

 

There was a pause, long and calculated, before Angela answered. They were on the precipice of something here, and they could both feel it. Everything up to this point could be written off as a little too much wine and some harmless flirting. But if they pressed on? Not so.

 

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted. “A hug, maybe? A case could be made for a goodbye kiss.”

 

A pang of desire shot through Moira at that, stalling her breath and setting her heartbeat pacing quicker. Angela could probably hear that, pressed close to Moira’s heart as she was.

 

Moira took a small step back and tipped Angela’s chin up with her finger. Her expression read equal parts vulnerable and flustered, lips slightly parted and eyes shining with unspoken words. She looked so soft under the dreamy lights of the balcony. “Is that what you’d like, Angela?” she asked. “A proper goodbye kiss, five years too late?”

 

Angela didn’t shy away from Moira’s gaze as she spoke. “It couldn’t hurt.”

 

Moira laughed half-heartedly before cupping the side of Angela’s face and leaning down. “Come now, you and I both know that’s not true.”

 

And without another word, Moira closed the gap between them, bringing their mouths together with the slightest of pressure. Angela’s lips were just how she remembered them—soft and full and perfect. Angela settled her hands on Moira’s waist tentatively and made a small unconscious hum from the back of her throat. This close, Moira could recognize the heady amber of her perfume. Pressing her fingers firmer against Moira’s sides, Angela leaned into the kiss further before inching up on her tiptoes so that she could reach Moira more fully.

 

Five years. Five years since Moira had been touched like this—kissed like this—and yet here she was, head floating from wine and the moon and Angela. How had she ever allowed herself to be alone for this long? She’d almost forgotten what this sort of warmth felt like. Angela was right; this is how they should have said goodbye all those years ago. Although in that exact moment Moira couldn’t quite remember why they’d needed to say goodbye at all.

 

After a few blessedly still moments Moira pulled back, taking her hand from Angela’s face. She breathed deeply and watched as Angela’s eyes slowly opened again. She removed her hands from Moira’s waist like an afterthought, pursing her lips and watching Moira for any sign of how she intended to proceed from here. If she was hoping for more, she would have to be disappointed.

 

“Well then,” Moira said, low and strained, “was that more to your liking than a handshake?”

 

Angela nodded.

 

“Then in that case, goodbye and goodnight, Dr. Ziegler.”

 

“Moira,” Angela said, confusion and hurt painting her features, “you can’t be serious.”

 

“I’m always serious.” Moira smoothed the front of her suit, hoping that Angela didn’t see the slight trembling in her hands. “Do enjoy the rest of your stay in Oasis.”

 

And with that, she turned and left the only woman she’d ever loved standing alone under the twinkling lights of the balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be found procrastinating writing [here](https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

The next day passed in a blur. Angela and Peter darted around town from appointment to appointment, making the rounds and taking in the sights where they could. Embassy staff took them on a midday cruise down the Pinnaret after their meeting with the Swiss ambassador. Angela was the honorary guest at a luncheon hosted by a local medical association. Peter’s friend from the Ministry of Chemistry led them on a tour of the Abu Hassoun Gardens after that, which was more than a bit surreal. All traces of the bombing the week before had been thoroughly cleared: foliage replanted, columns repaired, burn marks painted over. There weren’t many people walking around yet—many still felt unsafe being there—but they were assured that crowds would return in time. After that, they were whisked downtown to view the temporary housing units that Oasis used to lodge refugee and displaced families while they waited for their immigration appeals to be processed. Following that, they simply wandered. Oasis was a large city, and there was no way they’d have time to see it all.

 

The city was beautiful, bustling, _alive._ It was a place that blurred the lines between science and science fiction, always daring you to do a double take. It was a city with one of the most educated populations in the world, and it showed. People wore their ambitions on their sleeves here, and they would sooner strike up a conversation on the street about the year’s Nobel Prize contenders than the weather. Technology that would have taken years—maybe even decades—to design, patent, trial run, and commercialize anywhere else was bandied around by corner store vendors like it was nothing. At another time, Angela might have fallen in love with Oasis that day. But as it was, she didn’t pay attention to any of it. Her mind was on other things, other people. Or just one person in particular. She took everything else in passively, as if anything going on around her was simply passing in front of her eyes without consequence.

 

She felt a bit like a lovestruck teenager about it all, but at the end of the day who could blame her? Sharing a candlelit dinner and a kiss with your ex-wife only to be walked out on moments later was bound to muddy anyone’s mood. Angela slept restlessly that night and woke up feeling no better. She was a swirl of emotions, still not quite able to place exactly how she felt about the night before. It occurred to her that maybe doing a more clinical analysis of her headspace might be helpful, so she tried her best. At first tally, Angela felt hurt at being left on the balcony. She felt stupid for asking for a kiss in the first place. She felt nostalgic for days that were long since passed. She felt grateful that Moira didn’t stay long enough to see how Angela started to cry as she waited for a cab. More than anything, Angela supposed that she just felt weary. Weary and sad.

 

Despite the thinly veiled concern from some of her friends and colleagues, Angela had been doing just fine in the years since the divorce. Not immediately afterwards, of course, but eventually. At the time, leaving and being left by Overwatch and Moira in one fell swoop had nearly broken her, and she would be the first to admit it. Angela wouldn’t ever have characterized her life in Overwatch as _stable,_ but she’d had a life. One with its share of stress and danger, but not without happiness. And certainly not without love. To have that taken from her—snatched from her—so abruptly had been almost too much to bear. But she’d done it. She clawed her way back to mental health unapologetically. She’d be damned if she let Moira ruin all the progress she’d made.

 

When she was gone from Oasis, she’d feel better. Here, it was too easy to get lost in thoughts of Moira. The city was inextricably linked to Moira in Angela’s mind, and that made things all the harder. The past five years had only been tolerable because there was so much _distance_ between the two of them after the divorce. There were no drunken late night meet-ups, no accidentally bumping into each other on the sidewalk. They were apart in all interpretations of the word, and Angela could handle that. But this was almost unbearable. She found herself looking for Moira in every crowd, around every corner. It was torture.

 

She spent the evening alone. She wanted to do something light and enjoyable; maybe look at the lights off the Pinnaret again. She had a list of restaurants to try, plenty of tourist traps she could sink some time into. None of it interested her. She bought a bottle of wine from the hotel’s sommelier and went back to her room.

 

She had only just uncorked it when she got a phone call in her room phone. The number wasn’t Peter’s and had an Oasis area code. For the briefest moment, Angela thought that it might be Moira. She scrambled across the bed and had the receiver to her ear before the first ring was finished.

 

“Hello?” She winced at how eager she sounded.

 

“Good evening, Dr. Ziegler.” Angela’s shoulders slumped as soon as the voice on the other line spoke. It was a man’s voice. Not one that she recognized, but more importantly, not Moira’s. “I have Minister Al-Shahrani on the other line. May I patch her through?”

 

Angela took a moment to readjust, wondering briefly if there was some mistake. She didn’t have any call scheduled, and she couldn’t square why Anya Al-Shahrani might be calling her out of the blue. She wasn’t going to hang up, though.

 

“Of course,” she said. “Put her through.”

 

There was a soft click on the other line before Al-Shahrani’s voice came through.

 

“Dr. Ziegler,” she said warmly. “How are you doing this evening?”

 

“I’m well, thank you. And you, Minister?”

 

“Much the same. Did you and Deputy Commissioner Halleran have a pleasant day today? I’m told that you saw quite a bit of the city.”

 

“We did, yes,” Angela said. “We didn’t get to see everything, of course, but it was lovely.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it. We take our guests’ experiences here very seriously. If anything was amiss, please let me know so that I can report it to the Ministry of Tourism.”

 

“That’s not necessary at all. As I said, everything was lovely.” Angela paused, twirling the phone cord around her finger. “Was there...something you needed, Minister?”

 

“Yes, actually. Did you have any plans set for tomorrow around four o’clock?”

 

Angela wracked her brain, trying to remember what was on the docket for tomorrow. Beyond a brunch with Peter and his chemist friend, there was nothing she needed to do that was time sensitive in any way. “No, I’ll be free. Why?”

 

“I was hoping to grab a few minutes of your time then. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“With me? What about?”

 

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to speak about it in person. If you like tea, there’s a local favorite near your hotel that I think you might enjoy visiting. We can speak there.”

 

Angela was confused, but undoubtedly interested. She couldn’t imagine what Al-Shahrani would need to speak to her about, but at least it would be something to do. “That’s fine,” she said, grabbing a pad and pen from her nightstand. “Just tell me where to meet you.”

 

*

 

Minister Al-Shahrani’s ‘local favorite’ turned out to be a teahouse located in the Financial District. There was no visible sign outside, but Angela’s driver knew exactly where to find it once she gave him the name. It certainly looked different from the office buildings it was sandwiched between; its face was wood-paneled with a single staircase leading to the front door. Its wide windows allowed you to get a glimpse inside from the street, and it seemed to be packed with people.

 

The restaurant was softly lit, and the decor was all warm reds and bright golds. The air smelled like flowers and spice. As soon as Angela arrived, she was whisked through the crowded dining room towards a carved out alcove in the back. It was on the other end of the room, separated from the rest of the dining floor by a thick curtain. When the host pulled the curtain back, Angela found that the Minister was already seated at their table. She nodded at Angela, her face fixed with a cool and appraising expression.

The table was set minimalistically with an assortment of pastries and fruit set out for them both. There was an ornate ceramic teapot in the center of the spread with steam gently rolling out of its mouth. Al-Shahrani didn’t speak until Angela was seated.

 

“I’m grateful that you were able to find the time to meet with me, Dr. Ziegler.”

 

“Please, call me Angela.”

 

Anya smiled, scooping a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. “Angela, then. Thank you. And please feel free to call me Anya as well.” She reached across the table to fill Angela’s cup with steaming water from the teapot. There was a bundle of dried leaves at the bottom of it, and it began to unfurl and bloom underneath the heat of the water. Soon there was a bright flower in the middle of her cup, giving off the scent of cardamom and honey. Angela watched the process in fascination.

 

“Blooming tea,” Anya explained. “I loved it as a girl, and this is the only restaurant that sells it in the city. I like to come here as often as possible.”

 

“It’s very pretty,” Angela said kindly. “Thank you for inviting me here.”

 

“It’s no trouble at all. As I said on the phone last night, it’s important to me that you have a pleasant experience here.”

 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Angela insisted. “Your city is wonderful. I’ve enjoyed my visit very much.” That wasn’t entirely true, but what was Angela supposed to say? Oasis is great, but I’m too hung up on my ex-wife to appreciate it?

 

“I’m glad to hear that. And I do apologize, but I must ask. Your dinner the night before last? With Minister O’Deorain. I trust that was pleasant as well?”

 

Angela looked down at her hands, away from Anya, and cleared her throat softly. “How did you know about that?”

 

Anya chuckled, looking at Angela as if she was a child asking why the sky was blue. “Information is currency in Oasis,” she said simply. “As such, gossip is a popular pastime. Particularly if it concerns one of our illustrious Ministers.”

 

“And particularly if it’s about Moira, I’d imagine?” Angela asked carefully.

 

“You’re correct.” Anya leaned back in her chair, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “All government officials are watched closely here, of course, but she’s picked up a bit of a fan club. I might call it a regular cult of personality, if I was feeling dramatic.”

 

“Moira has a fan club?” Angela asked, scoffing despite herself.

 

“Is that so surprising?”

 

Angela’s first instinct was to say yes. Of _course_ it was surprising that Moira had managed to pick up a following of devotees in Oasis. Moira was many things, but she was hardly a charmer. She preferred to stay in the shadows and work with her head down. That’s why the implosion of Overwatch had been so damaging to her: suddenly she was being discussed at length in the public eye. Entire hearings were held solely about the extent of Moira’s involvement in the organization, and that loss of privacy had kept her up at night. Moira was someone who kept herself at arms length from the world on purpose. Although, once she thought about it, Angela could see why people would be drawn to that air of mystery. After all, isn’t that exactly what had happened to her?  

 

Which is why, after a moment’s pause, she sighed and said, “No, I suppose not.”

 

“If you’re interested,” Anya said with a wink, “there’s a particularly amusing website solely dedicated to compiling candid photos of her walking her dogs. It’s updated fairly regularly. So I’m told.”

 

Angela flashed a wry smile. “I’m sure she loves that.”

 

Anya smiled back, crinkling her eyes in almost conspiratorial amusement. “When a person makes themselves purposefully difficult to know, speculation abounds. It’s just the way things are. Moira is certainly more insular than most of her colleagues; but that’s not new, I assume. I’m sure that she was the same when you and she worked together?”

 

“We never worked together,” Angela said, shaking her head slightly. “Well, there was—I suppose I should say we worked together once. But that was all.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Angela lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug. “We were on separate tracks, even from the beginning. You’ve seen more of her in a work setting than I ever did.”

 

It was a common misconception that Angela and Moira had met—had fallen in love—in the lab together, working side by side under the same banner to achieve a common goal. That was a romantic notion, but it wasn’t the case. Overwatch and Blackwatch were intertwined, but kept as separate and secret as possible. And Moira was even more of a secret, given the controversial nature of her hiring; she lived off-base, worked away from Overwatch proper, only interacted with Blackwatch agents. She communicated with Ana and Jack secondhand through Gabriel so that they could still have plausible deniability later. Angela could have easily spent her entire stint in Overwatch without ever having met Moira. If it weren’t for the accident in Oslo, she probably would have.  

 

Anya looked interested, but she didn’t pry.

 

“Well all the same,” she said as she brought her cup to her lips, “Moira is enigmatic, her work is highly respected here, and her secrecy is intriguing to many. Even _attractive_.” A pointed look to Angela there. “Simply put, people are interested in her. So when she has a popular restaurant cleared out for a private dinner…”

 

“People want to know why,” Angela finished. “Including you.”

 

Anya took a moment to dab at the edge of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m not necessarily wondering _why_. You were married, after all. It’s not odd that you would want to catch up after all the years that have passed you by.”

 

“Then what’s your interest?”

 

Tracing her finger over the rim of her cup, Anya seemed to weigh her words carefully. “My interest,” she conceded, “is simply making sure that you’ve been treated well. Moira can be harsh, as I’m sure you know, and I would hate for her to run you off before I even had the chance to explain why I requested that you be brought here.”

 

“To this restaurant?”

 

“To Oasis.”

 

There was a beat of silence between them as realization set in. Angela blinked in surprise, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “ _You’re_ the one who had me brought here?”

 

“I am,” Anya said with a smile. She dipped a madeleine in her tea and took a small bite before continuing on. “I apologize for not saying so earlier, but I wanted to give you time to experience the city organically.”

 

“But...why?”

 

Angela had stopped trying to figure out why her Executive Director had suddenly insisted that she drop her upcoming trip to Serbia and travel to Oasis with Peter instead. It had seemed nonsensical at the time, particularly because she hadn’t been given a decent reason for the change. Up until now, she had half expected that Moira had arranged it herself, only to regret it once Angela actually arrived. But she’d never considered that she was suspecting the wrong Minister.

 

“I’d like to offer you a job, Angela.”

 

Of all the possible answers to her question, Angela absolutely hadn’t been expecting that one. “A job?” she asked, laughing a little to mask her confusion. “What job?”

 

“You’re familiar with Muderis Memorial Hospital?”

 

“Of course. Isn’t everyone?”

 

Muderis Memorial was the main hospital in Oasis—another claim to fame. Healthcare was free for residents of the city, but for everyone else, treatment was exorbitant. The hospital boasted state of the art medical technology, and was often the only place in the world where otherwise experimental and uncommon treatments were not just used, but used with staggering success rates. It was considered a miracle if non-residents were even approved for the wait list.

 

“You’re too kind.” Anya regarded her empty cup and filled it again with water as she spoke. “Dr. Ali Pasha is our Chief of Surgery there. He’s been with Oasis since the beginning, and I hand selected him myself for his position. We hoped that he would stay with us for many more years, but…” she sighed softly and flashed Angela with a knowing smile, “Life has a way of disrupting one’s plans.”

 

“Life?”

 

“Life,” she said simply. “Dr. Pasha’s father has grown very ill and requires around-the-clock medical care. We offered to bump him to the top of the waiting list so that he could relocate here immediately for treatment, but he’s apparently more than a bit stubborn and refuses to leave Lebanon. Dr. Pasha has taken a position at a local Lebanese hospital so that he can be near his father and help with whatever treatment is still possible.”

 

“And so now you need a Chief of Surgery.” That was clearly where Anya was going with all this, but it still felt presumptuous to say so out loud, to even _imply_ that Angela thought she might be under consideration.

 

“We do. I’ve already submitted your name to Hassoun as my top choice for the job.”

 

To say that Angela was shocked would be an understatement. She searched Anya’s face for any sign of irony or insincerity and found none. “Top choice is...incredibly generous. How did my name even come into consideration?”

 

“Moira, believe it or not.”

 

That was officially too much for Angela to believe. _“Moira_ recommended me for the position?”

 

Anya brushed Angela’s question away with a grin and a casual wave of the hand. “Not in so many words, no. But at a recent Ministerial meeting I asked if anyone knew of any exceptional doctors who might be able to be brought in to consult on an issue. I didn’t admit that I was scouting for replacements for Dr. Pasha.”

 

“But still. She gave you my name?”

 

“Not right away. I seem to remember she was brooding in the corner, no doubt counting the seconds until the meeting was over. Regardless, after some prodding on my part, she told me that you were the finest doctor she’d ever met. She declined to give any other name.”

 

Angela felt heat rising to her face and hated herself for it. After her rejection, was she really sitting here blushing over a compliment from Moira that she was only hearing secondhand? Despite everything, it seemed that she was.

 

“I’ll admit,” Anya said lightly, “I hadn’t even thought of you for the position up until that point, but Moira bringing you up made everything click for me. In all honesty, I’ve followed your successes for years. Your prior tenure as Chief of Surgery at Vaudois Lausanne, your work in Overwatch, your activism in the years since. It’s all undoubtedly impressive. You’re precisely the sort of talent that would thrive in Oasis.”

 

“Thank you, Anya. I’m flattered.” Angela realized that she sounded stiff. A simple ‘thank you’ wasn’t a sufficient response for this level of praise, or this sort of offer. But regardless, she had no idea what more to say. Anya wasn’t expecting an answer immediately, was she?

 

Almost as if she could sense Angela’s trepidation, Anya reached out and lightly touched Angela’s hand before pulling back again. “I’m only asking for your consideration. Your  _serious_ consideration. When you have time, I can arrange to have you shown around the campus. You can take the day, tour the facilities, meet some of your potential colleagues. See if it all agrees with you.”

 

“I can’t—I wouldn’t have time for that. I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow morning,” Angela said vaguely. “I’m only here on a three day visa.”

 

It was a poor excuse and they both knew it, although Anya didn’t seem offended.

 

“You needn’t feel like you have to rush out of here, Doctor. Oasis is open to you. I’m asking you to uproot your life and move here; I realize that is no small request. You don’t need to decide today.”

 

“How much time _do_ I have to decide?”

 

Anya pursed her lips slightly and looked up as she thought about it. “A week seems fair to me, I’d say. I don’t wish to pressure you, but the position is an important one—it cannot go unfilled forever. There are a number of internal requests from doctors already living here who knew Dr. Pasha and are hoping to secure his position for themselves. None of them have quite your background. I’ll only start seriously considering them if you decide you’re not interested.”

 

The way that Anya sat back in her seat and glanced towards the curtain let Angela know that their conversation was poised to end now. She took her cue and moved to gather up her things. “I’ll let you know, Anya. Really, thank you so much.”

 

“My pleasure.” She pulled a small business card from her pocket and handed it to Angela. “If you do decide to stay a few extra days, just call this number. I’ve already sent the immigration office my preemptive approval for your visa extension.”

 

Angela ran her thumb over the face of the card and looked at the telephone number written on the back in elegant script before tucking it away. “I will. Thank you.” One more nervous smile to Anya and then she was gone.

 

*

 

Angela was waiting at the Oasis desert checkpoint bright and early the next morning. She was there too early, in reality, but sleep troubles meant that she’d already been awake for hours. She whiled away her extra time watching vans come in from the desert and park for pit stops before heading back out to circle the city’s perimeter again. Past the city limits, desert sand was shifting and flying about in the heavy wind. None of the security workers bothered her as she watched out the checkpoint glass, and she kept to herself in turn. By the time Peter arrived, she was already midway through her second coffee. She heard the sound of his suitcase wheels running loudly over the linoleum floor before she saw him turn the corner.

 

“Morning, Doc!” he called out, coming to a stop in front of her.

 

“Good morning, Peter. Sleep well?”

 

“I did, yeah. It’s still too damn early for me, though.” He gave Angela a once over, frowning a little. “Where are your bags? They’re not already on board, are they?”

 

“No, they’re not. They’re back at the hotel, actually.”

 

“And what are they doing there?” he asked playfully, clearly not sure if she was joking.

 

Angela shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to give away too much. “Something’s come up. It looks like I’ll be staying here a bit longer. I’m only here to see you off properly.”

 

“Oh. When did that get decided?”

 

“It’s all been very last minute. I didn’t call to have my visa extended until an hour or so ago.”

 

“Everything’s okay?”

 

“Absolutely,” she said quickly. “I just have some loose ends I need to tie up here before I head home. I’m sorry to make you travel alone, though.”

 

“Oh that’s all right. I’m used to it.”

 

“So,” she said, looking out the window, “the convoy is a little late this time, isn’t it? I haven’t seen any vans coming in to stay yet.”

 

“Not a convoy this time, I’m told. Last minute agenda switch. We’re going up in that.” Peter pointed to the helicopter a few yards away from them both. “Or just I am, I guess. Courtesy of the Transportation Ministry.”

 

“Ministerial airlift to BGW?” Angela said with a smile. “Fancy.”

 

“Last minute agenda change. To tell you the truth, I never did like riding in helicopters all that much. Still,” he sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, “if I’m crossing the desert it might as well be fast.”

 

“You didn’t like our armored van?”

 

Peter laughed. “Your company was sparkling, Ziegler, but no.” He rocked back on his heels before seeming to remember something. “Oh, I meant to say. I spoke to Omar last night. He’s going to put in a good word with Hassoun and ask that our good doctors have their citizenship petitions revisited.”

 

“Really?” Angela was surprised. From the way their meeting had gone the day before last, she had assumed that the Ministry’s rejection was final. “That was kind of him.”

 

Shrugging, Peter shifted his overnight bag to his other shoulder. “Omar’s a good man. He’s not making any promises, of course, but it’s good to hear anyway. Maybe this whole trip wasn’t a waste of time after all.”

 

“Maybe,” Angela repeated softly. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

Grinning, Peter checked his watch and looked back to the helicopter waiting on the airstrip. “Well, I’m sorry to hear you’re not coming, but it looks like the fly boy over there’s trying to take off. How long do you think you’ll be kicking around here?”

 

“Hard to say. I’ll be working remotely when I can, though. Stay in touch and let me know you touched down safely.”

 

“Will do.” He flashed another smile and stuck his hand out for Angela to shake. “Pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Ziegler.”

 

Angela followed Peter out to the tarmac, shrinking slightly under the heavy heat already setting in. Watching as Peter made his way to the helicopter and gave the pilot a thumbs up, she wondered if she wasn’t making a mistake by staying behind. She had more than enough personal days at work saved up to spare the delay in getting home, but what would this serve in the end? Was she seriously considering this job, or was she just staying behind in the hopes of seeing Moira? And more importantly, what point would seeing Moira again even serve? Angela had done more than enough to embarrass herself at their dinner, and she wasn’t sure if she could handle going through something like that again. Although it was too late to change her mind now, she supposed, and at the very least she owed Anya the courtesy of taking her offer seriously. A few extra days wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she'd even find the time to work on her tan.

 

Angela stepped back as the helicopter’s engine turned over. The rotors kicked up their speed, the wind ruffling Angela’s hair and eventually blowing it back over her shoulders.  She squinted against the sun that was already high in the sky and waved as the helicopter took flight. Peter strained against his seatbelt to lean out and wave back at her before settling in again and adjusting his straps. He shouted something down to Angela, but she couldn’t hear it past the wind in her ears and the sound of the helicopter’s rotors beating overhead.

 

Whatever words Peter Halleran said turned out to be his last. The helicopter meant to carry him home—the helicopter that Angela was supposed to be riding in as well—exploded within less than a minute of being in the air. As would be discovered later, there had been explosives placed throughout the craft. Under the pilot’s seat, in the fuselage, along the tail boom. No one inside stood a chance. Angela saw it all happen, detonation after detonation, as she stood frozen on the tarmac. Her hand was still held high as if there was anyone left to wave to. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She should have been moving, she thought. Her medical instincts—her _battle_ instincts—should have been kicking in. But they weren’t.

 

 _That was meant for me,_ she thought numbly. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but she felt that with absolute certainty.

 

Angela didn’t duck when shrapnel and body parts and flaming debris came crashing down around her, didn’t flinch as a broken off chunk of metal came careening towards her head. It struck her, breaking the skin of her forehead and drawing blood immediately. She was knocked back by the force of the blow and landed hard on the concrete.

 

_That was meant for me. That was meant for me._

 

Her head hurt. Blood was getting in her eyes. She was fairly certain the metal that hit her was lodged in her skin. She had cut her palms and knees on the concrete. She wasn’t scared—she wasn’t anything. It felt like she’d been unceremoniously knocked out of her own body, past the point of fear and even basic understanding. Trying to stand would be a fool’s errand; she was quickly losing all feeling in her body. She was blacking out, then. She still couldn’t scream. But if she could have, she would have screamed for Moira.

 

Moira would know what to do. Moira would know how to help. Moira would know why this was happening. Moira would know, Moira would know. The thought, like a bitter mantra, repeated over and over in Angela’s head, desperate and clear. Replaced only by—

 

_That was meant for me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang at https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/
> 
> \--
> 
> I'm sure literally all of you have seen it by now, but I want to PUBLICLY thank ohnoafterlaughs for their [amazing fanart](http://ohnoafterlaughs.tumblr.com/post/172513857076/angela-took-another-sip-of-wine-seemingly-unaware) of the balcony scene in chapter 3. it was beautiful and tender and I could not be more appreciative for it or for the new readers who came from it. thanks to everyone, writing this fic is such a joy
> 
> also shoutout to ohsocyanide, my beautiful and talented fic wife, who also happened to be my beta for this chapter. love you immeasurably <3


	5. Chapter 5

Angela had been hurt before. Given her obsession with forays into the heat of battle, that was hardly surprising. Jack and Ana, in one of their rare instances of sound judgement, had done their best to keep Angela tied to her desk—to her work at HQ. They’d indulged all of her pipe dream proposals, courted donors willing to throw obscene amounts of money at her whenever she was chasing a new project, ferried her around the world and back for whatever toothless ambassadorial assignment they could come up with just for the sake of keeping her busy. None of it stuck. Angela was drawn to battle like it was the only place that made sense for her to be. Moira had never met a pacifist who was as willing to run directly into the line of fire as Angela was. Her Valkyrie suit protected her as it was meant to. There were plenty of missions where Angela was the only medic who came home unscathed, and other times when she was the only one to come back alive at all. But a suit with wings—no matter how advanced—could only keep a person from so much. A warzone was a warzone, and in war people often wound up battered and broken if they didn’t wind up dead. Serving as a body in Overwatch’s military machine was a decidedly dangerous job.

 

And as such, Angela had indeed been hurt before. Broken bones, burns, internal bleeding, temporary deafness, concussions. Moira had seen it all, and as Angela’s partner it never got easier. She had never been able to open up the official list of casualties that leadership circulated internally after every mission without feeling like she was on the verge of a breakdown, skimming names of the dead and not caring for a single one of the sorry bastards as long as it wasn’t Angela.

 

Moira was able to help after some of those injuries on the rare occasions when her schedule matched up with Angela’s long enough to allow them to be in the same city for more than a few hours at a time. She could almost never swing a visit to the hospital, not when eyes were everywhere, but she cared for Angela at home however possible once she was put on convalescence. Moira had hoped, in the beginning, that being married would temper Angela. That maybe knowing she was loved—that someone would be undeniably ruined if she were to die—would keep her from volunteering for frontline missions. That proved to be a naïve assumption. If anything, Angela started volunteering for high risk assignments even _more_ after she and Moira got involved. Maybe it was because she knew that Moira was pulled into field work often, and she didn’t want to feel like the only one in their relationship who wasn’t pulling their weight in battle. Maybe it was because of the knowledge that the quickest way to ensure she’d see Moira sooner was to get hurt. Maybe it had nothing to do with Moira at all. Moira didn’t know, and she never found out for sure.

 

Even so, it had been years since Moira needed to play the role of worried emergency contact. It apparently did not get easier with time.

 

News of another bombing tore through Oasis within minutes. Details were scant and purposefully vague: a helicopter had exploded near the city checkpoint and people were dead. Beyond that, there was nothing concrete to latch onto. Motive, connection to the previous bombings, exactly _who_ had died; there was nothing to be found beyond wild speculation fueled by thinly veiled panic. Moira was in the car on her way to her Ministry when she received the citywide notice of a high alert. Pending more information, everyone was advised to keep off the streets and secure themselves in a safe location.

 

As she was only a few minutes away from the MoGen, it would have made the most sense for Moira to press on and shutter herself in with her employees like she had the last time. She knew that her staffers were scared and that having a figurehead to turn to for some much needed sense of normalcy and composure would probably be helpful for them. Even locked in the lab and placed behind a firewall, Moira could even get some modicum of work done if she went to the Ministry. And of course, the building’s security force would be far more helpful in fending off any personal danger than the smaller detail assigned to her private residence.

 

Despite this, Moira knew as soon as she saw the notice that she wouldn’t be going to work that day. Because, for whatever reason, she knew in the pit of her stomach that Angela was somehow involved in what had just happened. This was day four, after all. The day that Angela was set to leave Oasis and never return. That checkpoint was the only civilian exit from the city, so she would have been set to go through it some point before the day was over. And, all things considered, wouldn’t it be so like Angela to get caught up in a random act of terrorism? Of course it would. Angela sought out chaos so regularly in her life that it had long since started seeking her out in return. It only made sense that it would follow her to Oasis too.

 

Moira knew that she had no claim to Angela and no real right to know if she was safe. She had only a stupid, selfish desire to know whether or not she should be mourning. If their final goodbye kiss, cruel as it was, was going to be the last moment they’d ever shared together. And while that would be fitting, she wasn’t sure if she could ever forgive herself for it.

 

Moira lowered the car’s partition and ordered her driver to turn around. Her voice was level and cool, betraying none of the anxiety working its way through her—the panic roiling just below the surface. She pointedly ignored the look of fear that flashed in her driver’s eyes at the idea of spending more time on the road than necessary. On her order they sped towards her home, veering off onto private access roads to ensure that they didn’t get held up in traffic or security checks. All the while, they said nothing to each other.

 

On the drive Moira called no one but Fay Zhao, her Deputy Minister, to transfer command to her for the day. She didn’t call Omar despite the fact that he would be the one man in the city with any sort of reliable information about what was happening; he was no doubt being flooded with questions and intelligence, and she didn’t wish to add to the pile-on. She certainly didn’t call Angela, because there were only two ways for that to end: Angela would either answer or she wouldn’t. If she answered, Moira would know that she was alive, but would then have to admit her concern and reason for calling. There were worse things in the world, to be sure, but Moira was far too prideful and stubborn to love the idea. But the possibility then remained for option number two: Angela _not_ answering. And if Angela didn’t answer, then she was likely dead. Or at least Moira would immediately assume so, which would lead to _more_ panic, and she would likely risk losing any semblance of her composure right then and there in front of her driver. Both options were unattractive, so calling Angela was altogether off the table. Beyond that, she tried to clear her head of thoughts and worry, although that was impossible. She muted the news and stared straight out the window.

 

After dropping her off, Moira’s driver went home. Technically this was a breach of contract; during the day, he was supposed to stay within ten minutes of Moira’s location at all times. He could be fired for leaving his post, particularly in the middle of a citywide emergency. Still, when he fiddled with his seatbelt and started whimpering with tears in his eyes about his children who went to school less than a mile away from the checkpoint, Moira waved him off. She was hardly in the mood for company anyway.

 

Once inside, Moira went straight for her study. It was on the top floor, situated at the end of the hall behind a discreet panel door that was almost impossible to spot if you weren’t looking for it. She didn’t know if any of the other Ministers had safe rooms like hers—although she was positive that at least El-Shazli had some sort of extra security measure in his residence—but it had been a prerequisite for Moira as her home was being built. She had insisted that she needed a space of her own where she knew without a doubt that no one could possibly intrude. A safe haven room within the safe haven of her home within the safe haven of Oasis. Hassoun had assumed, upon reviewing her request, that she was simply paranoid; offbeat intellectuals had any number of quirks that were to be expected. He’d apparently heard similar requests from those who had recently left active duty posts. Between Moira’s violent mission history and her at the time recent fiasco with the media’s very public dogging of her for candid photos and interviews, it made perfect sense to him that she should want a guarantee of privacy in her new city. If he’d suspected that what she _really_ wanted was somewhere private from where she could contact Talon in peace, the room certainly wouldn’t have been approved.

 

Moira pressed her palm against the wall, and the biometric security system embedded there scanned her hand with a soft whir before unlocking the study door. She pushed the panel in and stepped inside, appraising the space to make sure that nothing had been disturbed in her absence. Content to see that everything was seemingly how she’d left it, she entered the room fully and closed the door behind her.

 

The “study” itself was unassuming, windowless and entirely lacking in furnishings or decorations aside from a large desk, a couch, and sparsely filled bookshelves lining the wall. Moira hadn’t made an effort to make the space comfortable because comfort was hardly the point of the room itself. It was a place for business, not a place to linger. She made calls here, sent out messages, sketched schematics and pared down research; she _worked._ She worked on things that she could never share with anyone in polite society. Things she felt proud and occasionally ashamed of.

 

Her only hint of sentimentality—a slightly blurry photograph of Angela looking out at the ocean, taken on a morning that felt like it happened a lifetime ago—sat on her desk, frameless and worn at the edges. She made a point not to look at it as she rummaged through her desk drawer in search of her only standing lifeline to Talon HQ.

 

She found it quickly: a thin black tablet, smooth and cool to the touch. It was the only physical thing provided to her by Talon—they were an understandably tight-fisted organization. They weren’t like Overwatch, which branded its name and logo on everything it could justify so that people could spot their affiliates right away. If you were in Talon you knew it, and if you advertised that fact it meant that you wouldn’t be alive for long. Moira almost preferred it that way. She held her finger over the tablet’s power button, realizing full well that this was the only opportunity she would have to use the thing. This wasn’t a device meant to be used often, or ever. It was a one-off, single use Hail Mary, designed to destroy itself from the inside after a single message was sent. With that in mind, it was important to measure one’s words extremely carefully; there were no do-overs here. Luckily for her, she knew exactly what she wanted to say. She opened up the mail function and typed out a simple message—

 

_I want answers. Get me Gabriel this time tomorrow or everything’s off._

 

She sent it, knowing that it had gone to the right place because there was only one contact cheekily named _Help Desk_ in the tablet’s address book. She watched her note disappear from the screen, leaving her with a blank white background for a few moments before the display began to flicker. Eventually it went black, cutting out unceremoniously and leaving Moira well and truly alone again.

 

After that, there was nothing else for her to do but wait. So she waited.

 

*

 

When Anya eventually called over an hour later, Moira felt relief. A call meant that Anya had news. Whether it was good or bad, at least Moira was about to get some degree of clarity.

 

“You’re not at the Ministry,” Anya said, voice tinny and small on the other line.

 

“No.”

 

“I’ve been calling. I tried to reach you there first. I—you’re always in the lab, and I simply… not that I could get through anyway with the lockdown. I needed Omar to lift the MoGen’s firewall before I could even figure out that you weren’t there, and—”

 

“Anya, you’re rambling.”

 

“—of course I could have called your cell phone, but I didn’t even think to. You’re _always_ in the lab, so I just… didn’t think of it. I didn’t think. _Lanati,_ I could have reached you ages ago if—”

 

Moira’s voice cut through the relentless flood of words. “ _Anya,”_ she said sharply, raising her hand in a gesture that no one but herself could see, “just tell me.”

 

Anya was terrible in a crisis. She panicked too readily, opting to simply freeze in matters of fight or flight. She tried to put on a brave face as best she could manage when she was around cameras or civilians, but with members of her inner circle—a cohort which Moira found herself  part of—her acting fell apart. Under normal circumstances she was a kind and gracious leader, but in times like this? She was absolutely useless. Moira knew this already after witnessing Anya’s reaction to the debacle of the first bombings, but never before had it been this acutely frustrating. Likely because back then she’d found the whole situation morbidly interesting at best and tedious at worst. Now, however, she had a personal stake in the matter. All she wanted was simple bit of information: was Angela alive? Moira had no desire to hold Anya’s hand and make her feel better before she got that answer.

 

There was a shuddering breath on the other line followed by sickening silence before Anya was calm enough to speak. “Angela was on site at the checkpoint today,” she said finally. “She’s been injured.”

 

Moira went cold. Words she meant to say and questions she meant to ask all caught in her throat. Anya continued to ramble, although this time Moira had no presence of mind to stop her. Details came rushing out in one long string of exposition; Angela was there but not on the plane, Peter Halleran’s remains had been found in the wreckage, what was left of the helicopter had been confiscated by the MoSec for their investigation, all non-official travel in and out of the city was indefinitely suspended, Anya was at Muderis and was shuttered in with the medical staff.

 

The relevance of any of that information was lost on Moira. All that she was truly able to focus on was the fact that Angela was injured. Injured meant damaged. Injured meant _alive_. Injured meant Angela was alone. Injured meant she was scared. Injured meant any number of things, and for the life of her, Moira couldn’t remember a time when she had ever felt quite so useless.

 

“Where is she now?” she asked.

 

“Here at the hospital. I’ve been in consultation with her doctors since she arrived.”

 

“My driver’s left. Send a car around to take me there.”

 

“I’ll send you mine,” Anya said. There was a pause in conversation as her attention was pulled elsewhere; Moira could hear a voice calling out at a distance before Anya responded in Farsi, going back and forth before dropping her voice again and switching to English. “Apologies,” she said wearily. “It feels like a million things are going on. But yes, I can send you a car. As soon as city travel resumes I’ll have my driver go pick you up.”

 

“I meant now. I have no intention of waiting for city travel to resume.”

 

“Moira, that’s not…” another deep sigh before Anya continued, “I _called_ the city lockdown, and it’s in place for a reason. I can’t just send cars around for anyone who’s stuck at home. I know you’re worried, but I’ll call you if Angela’s condition changes. Outside of that it’s paramount that you stay safe until Omar’s security sweeps are done.”

 

“Not good enough.” Moira heard her voice rising, although it was unintentional. The last lockdown had taken six hours before people were given the all-clear to move about again; the idea of waiting that long to see Angela and confirm that she was safe and being treated competently was simply unacceptable. “I can keep myself safe if anything happens on the way.”

 

“And how do you intend to fight off a bomb from the inside of your car? Or a shooting or anything else we could potentially be dealing with?”

 

“I’ve survived a hell of a lot worse than a drive to a hospital, Anya. If you’ll remember, I’ve literally fought my way through bloody warzones before. I’ll be _fine._ ”

 

Moira hated arguing like this, practically _begging_ for something as simple as a ride like she was a child who needed her mother’s permission to borrow the family car. Normally she would have taken herself there, terrible driving skills and lockdown be damned, but her car was gone. Under Omar’s orders, all Ministry-provided personal vehicles had been temporarily confiscated by MoSec staff a few days ago in order to be properly inspected and outfitted with a variety of security upgrades and safety features. In the long term that was a good thing. Presently, it was infuriating.

 

Anya sounded put out when she spoke again. She was clearly reaching the end of her patience; the last thing she probably needed in the midst of everything else going on was this conversation. “You don’t know that. None of us know whether or not we should be expecting another attack. If you were to be attacked and injured—or, God forbid, _killed_ —on your way to the hospital under my permission, how could I explain that to Hassoun?”

 

“I don’t care what you say to Hassoun. Tell him that if he was really so concerned about Oasis’ safety he would be here already instead of playing politics in London where he’s not needed.”

 

“You know that’s not fair,” Anya scoffed.

 

“All I _know_ ,” Moira said carefully, “is that if I’m not at Muderis within the hour, you can call Zhao and tell her that her promotion’s come early. I’ll close out the month and then I’m gone.”

 

Her threat hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Realizing how tensed she was, Moira unclenched her fist; half-moon indentations were pressed into her palm from where her nails had dug in. Anya said nothing. Moira waited. She knew the gravity of her words, and she refused to walk them back.

 

“You can’t—Moira, you can’t possibly be serious.”

 

“Can’t I? If Angela dies when I could have been there to stop it otherwise, I’ll do far worse than just resign.”

 

Threats only worked if you meant them. That’s what Anya was doing as she sat silently on the line—trying to figure out just how serious Moira really was. She was asking herself: _would Moira really do that?_ Leverage walking away from the city she’d helped establish, leaving her home and the best job she’d ever had in her life? And all of it just so she could get to Angela a little sooner than she would otherwise? Could she possibly care _that much?_ Considering, of course, that Angela and Moira were technically nothing to each other and hadn’t been for years.

 

The answer, in the end, was simple: Moira would. Without hesitation.

 

A car pulled into her driveway fifteen minutes later.

 

*

 

Muderis Memorial was buzzing with activity when Moira arrived, although it needn’t have been. On the surface it made sense, though. In normal crisis situations, hospitals were some of the first places to feel the urgency of it; wounded, dead, and those hovering somewhere in-between were corralled inside to anywhere with an inch of free space. Doctors and nurses ran around so frantically that watching them made you wonder how they were doing so much while also wondering if they were doing anything substantive at all. It was a unique kind of chaos, and one that Moira hadn’t been around in a long time. Muderis had that same energy now, despite there being absolutely no need for it.

 

As far as terror attacks went, this morning’s was negligible. Two people dead, one wounded. The two dead needed no further medical attention, so there was really only one new person the hospital had to look after. There was no logical reason for the hospital staff to seem so harried, especially considering the fact that the emergency room was completely empty due to the citywide lockdown. She passed a doctor shouting at a group of nurses and almost bumped into a crying intern on her way to the elevator alone. Moira supposed that the only real explanation was that people found it far easier to panic than they did to wait. Rather than sit and assess the situation, the good medical professionals of Oasis let their minds run wild. They were rushing around as if their hospital was full of the dead and dying because that’s exactly what they feared—all it would take was another push, a bigger bomb, a more crowded target, and then there _would_ be reason for panic. And so, rather than be caught off guard, they preemptively braced for the worst. Moira understood the instinct, but she still found it a useless waste of energy. After all, she knew better.

 

People who’d been through hell knew that there was a difference between preparing yourself and flinching, and flinching first was the worst thing you could possibly do. There was nothing worse than letting your enemies smell blood in the water.

 

Moira found the ICU quickly enough; three floors up and a left straight out of the elevators. She’d visited it once before, when construction of Muderis had finally been completed. Hassoun and Anya took Moira, the rest of the Ministers, and a small press team on a walkthrough to inspect the state of the art equipment and shake hands with the newly appointed Chief of Medicine. Hassoun had made a joke to the Ministers that Muderis was _the one place in Oasis I hope you’re lucky enough to see the least of._ Had Moira known that she would be back here years later in search of Angela, she might not have grinned back at him when he said it.

 

Upon being asked, a skittish nurse pointed Moira towards Angela’s room before running off. Whether her rush was because she had work to do or because Moira intimidated her—or both—there was no real way to know. Not that it mattered. As she strode down the hallway, fists balled in the pockets of the Minister’s robes that she hadn’t bothered changing out of, Moira found that absolutely nothing mattered beyond closing the gap between herself and Angela.

 

Her room was at the end of the hall. One security guard was posted near the entrance; the smooth glossy handle of his weapon glinted underneath the fluorescents. The scarring that trailed from his ear to the middle of his throat was distinct, and Moira recognized him as a member of Anya’s regular security detail. He eyed Moira warily as she approached, although he didn’t move or directly acknowledge her. She was only a few paces away when a voice called out behind her.

 

“I’m afraid you can’t go inside, Minister.”

 

Moira froze, hand outstretched for the doorknob. She glanced again at Angela’s borrowed guard before turning to assess who had stopped her. It was a man—a doctor at that—and he was heading towards Moira with Anya at his side.

 

“Excuse me?” Moira called back, making it clear that she wasn’t really asking a question. She didn’t often have to pull rank, but if this little man was going to try to keep her from seeing Angela, then—

 

The doctor came to stand in front of Moira. He straightened himself up, his next words coming out in a rush. “She—Dr. Ziegler isn’t seeing anyone at this time. And I do apologize, but that includes you. Minister. Everyone but the medical team, really.”

 

“So she’s awake, then?”

 

“Well, no. She still hasn’t woken up from surgery.”

 

“What surgery?” Moira’s eyes darted to Anya as she asked. She was standing behind the doctor, letting him speak to Moira without her interference. She met Moira’s gaze calmly

 

Of course Anya hadn’t mentioned a surgery. Probably to keep Moira from overreacting, as if that would do anything but delay the inevitable.

 

“Emergency surgery to remove the shrapnel and metal lodged in her shoulder,” the doctor answered. “Lucky for her it missed everything vital, but it would have been much more serious if the medvac team hadn’t gotten her here as quickly as they did. She was in and out of consciousness when she first arrived, but we put her under to keep her from going into shock and decided that she needed to stay under prior to surgery. She was...having difficulties.”

 

Moira properly looked at Angela’s doctor for the first time, assessed him as more than just a walking pair of scrubs and a clipboard. He was short and tan, probably mid-forties, with glasses and faint streaks of gray peppered throughout his otherwise jet black hair. The nametag on his scrubs said ‘Kieran.’

 

“Difficulties,” Moira repeated. “Meaning?”

 

“Meaning…”

 

As the doctor scrambled to find the most appropriate and least alarming way to talk about Angela’s condition, Moira realized that she’d seen him before. His full name was Kieran Walsh. He was a surgeon; Hassoun had introduced them once at one of his endlessly awkward medical association brunches. Walsh, Moira remembered now, had been one of Anya’s top contenders to fill the vacant Chief of Surgery position. What a joke.

 

Walsh cleared his throat, but it was Anya who finally answered the question. _“_ Meaning,” she said, “Angela was acting incredibly aggressively. Lashing out at staff, trying to run out of the room, screaming when anyone came near her. I tried to speak to her, and she threw a vase at me. Kieran was worried that if we left her awake she would harm herself or someone else, or at the very least reopen her wounds.”

 

That gave Moira pause. She’d seen Angela injured before. She’d seen her stressed and raging and so broken down that it seemed she might break at any moment. But Moira had never seen Angela violent. If she was edging for a fight with strangers, what would she do if she saw Moira?

 

 _“_ Well. She’s out of surgery now, yes? So _how is she?”_ was all Moira could manage. Every word was like a threat, sharp and short and low. Moira wasn’t a particularly volatile person, but she knew that she was in a dangerous place now. She could feel her rage churning beneath her skin, boiling her blood, setting her mind on fire. Every muscle in her body was tensed, every breath distinctly felt. Her mouth twitched at the corner, the way it always did when her temper was nearing the point of no return. There used to be a time, years ago, when Angela would see that twitch and kiss the edge of Moira’s lips to calm her down.

 

Those days were gone. But Angela wasn’t. After all she’d been through—everything suffered and accomplished—Angela was still alive. After all that the danger she’d managed to skirt for her entire life, it was untenable that Angela should die now. Moira wouldn’t allow it.

 

Walsh shrank under Moira’s glare, adjusting his glasses and flipping nervously through his chart. “She’s going to be fine. She’s concussed and she‘s been burned, but—“

 

“To which degree?”

 

“Second. Some of the fire from the crash got to her before the emergency team was able to reach the airfield. The worst is along her arms and back, but there’s also some less severe burns on her neck and hands.”

 

“Will it require grafts?”

 

“Likely not.”

 

“I want to inspect the burns myself before you make that determination.”

 

Irritation flashed across Walsh’s face, apparent in the hardening of his mouth and the way he blinked a few times as he sought out exactly what to say in response to being second-guessed.

 

“With all due respect Minister, my team and I are more than equipped to review Dr. Ziegler’s case on our own. I respect your background, but this isn’t a question of genetics.”

 

“Are you saying I’m not qualified to provide an opinion, Dr. Walsh?”

 

“I—of course not.” Whatever threat he read in Moira’s eyes was enough to get him to swallow his words; Walsh flushed and looked down, busying himself with marking something on Angela’s chart rather than saying anything else.

 

As a professional, Doctor Walsh was too nervous for Moira to be confident in him. His willingness to let Moira walk all over him implied that he let _anyone_ with a spine do the same, and Angela needed to be under the care of someone decisive. Still, if he was employed at Muderis, he was undoubtedly a good doctor. _Great,_ rather _._ Oasis only hired the best, and whoever was assigned to watch over someone as important as Angela Ziegler was undoubtedly top among his colleagues. Anya’s serious consideration in making him Chief of Surgery was a world class endorsement of his skill in and of itself. Moira didn’t care.

 

Again, Anya cut in. “The staff here is more than capable of making the medical decisions that are in Angela’s best interest. But if she’s sleeping either way, I don’t see an issue with letting Minister O’Deorain in for a moment if it will ease her mind. Do you, Kieran?”

 

Walsh looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. If he couldn’t hold his ground against Moira, he certainly wasn’t going to give Anya any pushback either. She was kinder than Moira was by a mile, but no one here was confused as to who outranked who.   

 

“Well,” Walsh said tepidly, “just for a moment, then. I don’t want her waking up.”

 

He edged past Moira, nodding at the guard before opening the door and motioning for Anya and Moira to go in first.

 

Angela’s room was cold. Quiet, with the silence only punctuated by the sharp whirrs and beeping of the machines Angela was hooked up to. The shades were drawn, with the day’s sunlight only barely peeking out around the corners of the window. The space was larger than what you might find in a standard hospital; it seemed almost like a sparsely decorated studio apartment rather than a hospital room. There was a long couch along the wall, walls painted a pale yellow rather than the pallid whites and greys you might expect to see. A TV hung on the wall, although it was turned off.

 

And in the center of it all was Angela. She was lying in the center of the bed, eyes shut and face smooth as if she was simply taking an afternoon nap. Much of her body was obscured by the sheets, but Moira could see enough. Cuts, burns, red welts from where debris and god knows what else had struck her. She looked so small and broken there, and Moira felt her stomach drop just at the sight of it all. This was her fault somehow, she thought. In some way or another, she had done this to Angela.

 

“You’ve cut her hair,” she said numbly.

 

“Well not me personally, no,” Walsh bristled. “A member of the emergency team. Apparently the fire caught in some of her hair.”

 

True to his word, there were still visible singes at the ends. They looked blackened and brittle, nothing like the long, soft strands that Moira used to run her fingers through as she drifted off to sleep in their bed. The hair that always smelled inexplicably of rosemary and mint. The hair that Angela would pull back in the kitchen, in the field, as she worked in the lab—anywhere that required focus.

 

Moira watched Angela, trying to will her to wake up. It felt unbearably _wrong_ for Moira to be this close and not be able to speak to her. She had no idea what she would even say when they were truly face to face again, but that was the least of her concerns.

 

“Have someone on staff notify me as soon as she’s awake,” Moira said, choking back against the emotion brimming at the edge of her voice.

 

Walsh nodded, looking from Moira to Anya to Angela and back again. “Of course, Minister O’Deorain.”

 

An unexpected hand at Moira's shoulder almost made her jump. Anya stepped into her field of vision, handing Moira a keycard. "We'll give you a minute or so, but afterwards you and I should talk. Upstairs, room 410." 

 

Moira nodded, waiting for Anya and Walsh to leave. She didn't allow herself to let out the sob she'd been holding in until the door was closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well...better late than never, eh? come hang at https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/


	6. Chapter 6

One night at Sognsvann Lake, a few miles north of Oslo, Jesse McCree told Angela that it was bad luck to spill your blood outside of the country where you were born. He’d been so serious, pacing at the edge of the waterfront while his shaking fingers failed to light his cigarette. She hadn’t known what to say to him then—she sensed that he was talking more to himself than to her, anyway—and had instead sat back and looked out at the water as Gabriel scolded him for talking nonsense. Her mind was on other things anyway: Genji’s condition, her new surroundings, the tall Irish woman with red hair and mismatched eyes that she’d only just met. With all that to consider, Jesse’s words seemed to roll right over her, just another quirk of his that she’d forget soon enough.

 

Except, for whatever reason, she didn’t forget.

 

Angela had never been one for superstition, but those words had nevertheless haunted at the back of her mind ever since that night. Bad luck, he’d said. Bad luck to bleed so far away from home. Something about that concept never failed to make a shiver run up Angela’s spine. Likely because if that was truly the case, everyone in Overwatch was on track to be so deep in bad luck that they drowned in it, Angela included. Angela _especially,_ perhaps. By the time Overwatch shuttered its doors, she had racked up the distinct accomplishment of spilling blood in five out of seven continents. And now? Now was no better. Despite having nothing to do with Overwatch anymore, Angela was currently lying in the hospital of a city that wasn’t hers, in a country that wasn’t hers either, blood recently spilled. Old habits, it seemed, died hard.

 

From the moment she woke up Angela felt overstimulated, crackling and unstable like a live wire. It was a nightmare situation, surrounded on all sides by people who were unknown to her in a way that her war training had always railed against. That unknown element—the idea that she could realistically roam the streets of Oasis for days and not see a single face that she recognized, filled Angela with a palpable, painful dread which cloyed at her throat and twisted in her chest. There was safety in numbers, in _friends_ , and Angela had no friends here. No safe houses, no contacts, no way to slip under the radar. She was trapped, and everyone knew it. She felt that isolation, heavy and absolute, and wanted to scream.

 

And after everything, who could blame her for that fear? Just this morning she’d narrowly avoided getting murdered, entirely due to coincidence rather than her own ability to protect herself. She’d watched as that helicopter, as _Peter_ —no. Angela could feel herself spiralling as soon as she so much as thought of Peter’s name and immediately tried to push it out of her mind. She felt a sickening wave of nausea start to overcome her and tried to push it down, breathing as best she could through the pain. It cycled like that for what felt like hours: Angela working to calm herself and keep her head above water before a memory or errant thought dragged her down to the edge of a panic attack. It was an old pattern, and there was a morbid sense of familiarity to it all. It had been a long time since she’d felt this impotent.

 

She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. The wall clock near the door read 6:12, but that information alone wasn’t exceptionally helpful. Morning or afternoon? Was it the same day of the bombing, or a different one? Was she still in Muderis, or had she been taken somewhere else? Her memories from after the bombing were more or less a blur, but she did remember that she’d been rushed into surgery and then put under heavy anesthesia. She could have easily been moved in the time that it took her to wake up. Was she even still in Iraq anymore? She had no real way of knowing, not when the handbag that had held her phone and laptop had been taken or lost, and there wasn’t anything like the day’s paper nearby for her to check. There was a TV mounted on the wall across from her bed, but it was off and there was no sign of the remote. That was probably for the best; Angela couldn’t imagine that watching the inevitable news coverage of her own attack would do anything good for her mental health.

 

Angela felt foolish for it, but some small part of her hoped that she hadn’t been taken away from Oasis. Not yet. If she was still there, that meant there might be a chance, however small, that she could maybe see Moira again. It had been five years since their separation, and Angela had gotten used to life alone in most regards. But she still hadn’t quite come to terms with the idea of recuperating at home without having Moira there by her side. It felt wrong, like all her loneliness was compounded and intensified when she was forced to lie in bed alone, in pain and vulnerable. Moira had always left much to be desired as far as live-in nurses went; she often spoke in clinical, professional terms rather than comforting ones, she commandeered Angela’s work devices so that she couldn’t distract herself with them while on bedrest, she was a _terrible_ cook. But she was there. That’s all Angela ever wanted anyway.  

 

If Angela had been ferried home to Switzerland, there was a very real likelihood that she would spend her home recovery alone, holed up in her flat ten blocks down from MSF, waiting for a call from Moira that would never come. Angela had been seriously injured twice while on the job since leaving Overwatch, both times highly publicized, and neither times had Moira sent so much as a stock get-well-soon message. It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did—realizing that Moira had long since stopped caring about Angela’s wellbeing—but Angela couldn’t help her feelings. It was a painful thing to have to accept that she had stopped being important to the woman who used to be her everything. None of that had changed, including Moira’s disinterest in Angela, and so if she was back in Switzerland already, Angela knew that she needed to start closing her heart up right away. Moira wouldn’t be thinking of her, and even if she was, she most certainly wouldn’t be coming for her.

 

And yet, despite all that, what if Angela _hadn’t_ been taken out of Iraq yet? What if she was still in Oasis, lying in a hospital just minutes from City Center? It would be harder for Moira to ignore her then.

 

Just then the door to Angela’s room cracked open, and suddenly she was back in King’s Row. And Warsaw, Seoul, Lusaka, Al Ain—cities whose names struck Angela with an instinctual need to run. Find cover, dodge bullets, count bodies, mutter prayers she didn’t believe in under her breath and sprint to safety. One unknown visitor to her room and it didn’t matter that she was actually none of those places, actually in a hospital bed. As far as her body was concerned, she was back in the field. Her hand shot to her hip in search of her gun before she remembered that she was unarmed; the muscles in her back tensed to offset the kickback of her Valkyrie wings lifting off before she remembered that she was wearing nothing but a thin cotton hospital gown; she tried to scramble out of bed to slam the door closed before the sharp pain in her shoulder and head reminded her that she was recovering from surgery and couldn’t move like she wanted. None of these realizations helped.

 

Before she had time to react, to prepare, to fight back, a man came into her room. He was—he was no one she knew. A stranger, an unwelcome stranger without permission to be there, was standing a yard away. Was he here to finish the job from this morning, end what had begun on the airport tarmac? If he had a gun, he could drop her at point blank range like this. If he had a knife, he could reach her before she had time to unhook herself from her machines and run. If he had a bomb, there was nowhere she could hide that the detonation wouldn’t reach.

 

Angela wanted him out. Needed him out, _now_.

 

“Hello, Angela,” he said, stepping further inside the room. “I’m happy to see that you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

 

“Get out.” Angela clutched at her blanket, back straight as a rod. Stupid, so stupid, to let herself get cornered like this. Would that stupidity get her killed today? “Right now, get out _right now.”_

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He motioned towards his lab coat, as if to show that he was harmless. As if assassins had never used a disguise to get to their marks before. “My name is Dr. Kieran Walsh. We spoke before I performed your surgery a few hours ago, do you remember that?”

 

Black hair. He had black hair and glasses, a red birthmark on his right wrist, a heavy set to his brow, and he looked—why did he look so familiar?

 

“Conrad?” She asked, almost not recognizing her voice in how fragile it sounded to her own ears. “That’s not…”

 

Walsh hesitated, suddenly unsure, so unlike Conrad in that way—it wasn’t _dashing_ to hesitate, so Conrad ran headlong into everything, always, no matter the risk—and Angela watched with wide eyes as a ghost from the past started to bleed through into reality. How many years had it been? When was the last time she’d thought of him?

 

“I’m sorry?” he asked, and Angela knew that it wasn’t _him_ , not really, but she could have sworn for just a second that she was back in Kosovo, whiskey in her belly to help stave off the chill in the air. “No, my name is Kieran Walsh. I don’t—I’m not sure who Conrad is. But if you’ll let me—”

 

_A clap on her back, a German lullaby on his lips in that terrible, tone-deaf singing voice of his until she begged him to stop, a promise that no matter what Jack said, his unit would make it home in time for Christmas._

 

“—and of course I understand that you’re still shaken. You’ve been through some undoubtedly traumatic events today. Still, it’s important to—”

 

_Conrad had a wife back home with pretty auburn hair. Conrad would take any bet you gave him if there was a pack of cigarettes in it for him. Conrad had black hair and glasses._

 

 _“_ —recovery would normally take much longer, but luckily our Board of Directors greenlit a procedure last week that’s already yielded—”

 

_Angela was there to watch Conrad bleed out as snow fell around them. No one answered their distress call. They hadn’t been expecting an ambush, hadn’t been ready for it. There was nothing she could have done. Nothing she could have done. That’s what the report said, that’s what Jack said, that’s what Conrad said before his eyes glazed over._

 

“Oh God,” Angela gasped, eyes wide and unseeing. She doubled over, head falling into her hands. One old memory and all the pain was rushing back: old, phantom pain from years ago and new, piercing pain from what she’d only just been through. She could have sworn that she heard sirens outside her window, could have sworn that she was breathing in smoke, could have sworn that Conrad—no, not Conrad, his name is _Walsh_ —had a gun behind his back. “Don’t come any closer,” she begged through her tears.

 

Walsh didn’t listen. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she screamed until it was the only thing she could hear.

 

*****

 

The keycard that Anya had slipped Moira earlier granted her access to the main building’s top floor, a section of the hospital that Anya had cordoned off for her own use throughout the ongoing crisis. Patients hadn’t needed to be moved to accommodate Anya’s need for privacy, because this floor was never meant for patients in the first place. It was on the hospital’s top level, with windows wrapping all around to provide stunning views of the city. If you’d dropped someone in the middle of it without context, they would be hard-pressed to assume that they were in a hospital at all. It was modern and bright, boasting balconies, a well-stocked library and common area, and furnished rooms that would have put a 5-star hotel to shame. It was all dual-purpose: on the right a welcoming place for doctors and nurses to relax and stay when they were on-call, on the left a place for Hassoun to court new investors. His secondary office was located there, on the wing opposite to the living quarters, and he made good use of the ample space for board meetings and medical briefings. Moira had met with him there a handful of times, on occasions when he felt that she might have a useful second opinion on something related to the hospital.

 

Anya had sequestered the conference room, turning it into a temporary base of operations. Omar, no doubt micromanaging everything as his MoSec security teams continued to survey Oasis for security threats, was sending Anya regular updates as they came in; Wards 1 through 7 had already been cleared, there were a number of suspicious vehicles that were still being inspected near City Center, teams were currently sweeping to finish rounding up anyone who had failed to comply with the lockdown so that they could be brought to the MoSec for preliminary questioning. Anya kept track of it all via projection of the city map that updated each zone’s safety ratings as Omar cleared them. He called every fifteen minutes or so, giving brief updates and answering questions, and asking more than once after Angela’s condition, seeing as she was the only living casualty from today’s attack. He would be at the hospital once his team could handle the sweep on their own, he promised. He’d diverted additional security teams to the hospital to keep an eye on things before it could be properly assessed for security breaches.

 

On top of tracking that, Anya was also in charge of relaying information to the rest of the Ministers. Most of them were stuck in their respective Ministries, and all of them were clambering for any updates they could get. Moira watched Anya hop from phone call to phone call, eyes glued to her computer and the city map as she tried to make sense of what was, in all regards, a confusing and terrible situation. If Moira hadn’t been so preoccupied with Angela, she might have felt greater sympathy for everything Anya had been forced to go through in the past week. This wasn’t solely her burden to bear, after all. She had founded Oasis _with_ Hassoun. They were meant to be a team, and it was obvious that Anya was struggling without having him around to lean on—she was brilliant in her own right, but tended to serve as the emotional support between the two of them whenever he was around, while he was more pragmatic and sharply oriented towards a goal. Anya was more than capable of supervising the hospital or the other Ministers without him for a while, but for an emergency like this? She needed help. Anyone would, really.

 

Still, chances were that wouldn’t need to flounder on her own for long; this latest incident would likely be the final push necessary to force Hassoun to end his international tour early. It was bad press for a Founder to be away from home during a citywide emergency, and Hassoun had only done this tour at all in an effort to get _good_ press. Moira would be glad to have him back. He had always been her favorite between the two Founders.

 

There was nothing Moira could offer as assistance that would do anything but slow Anya down, and they both understood that. She was more or less ignored as she sat at the head of the conference table, numbly watching the fluctuating city map and wishing she was downstairs with Angela. She practically jumped anytime her phone vibrated, realizing with a pang of fear that if Gabriel tried to contact her now, there likely wasn’t anywhere she could go to talk that would be private. She would have to ignore his call entirely—with no means to call him back afterwards, assuming he called from a blocked number as he usually did—or take it but risk being found out. Either option was unacceptable.

 

When Anya finally spoke, it was without a hint of preamble. She simply sighed, looked up, and said, “I need you to fly to London,” as casually as if she’d been asking Moira to run down the hall and grab lunch.

 

“London?” Moira turned in her chair and frowned. “Why?”

 

“Because that’s where Hassoun is, and it’s safe there. He and his team have been staying at a diplomatic safe house while they’ve been negotiating the British FTA, and their security teams are beyond capable.”

 

“Hassoun isn’t coming back to Oasis after all of this trouble?”

 

“No, he is, that’s exactly my point. I need you to fly to London and swap out for Hassoun so that he can come back here.”

 

“I have nothing to do with those negotiations,” Moira said curtly. “I don’t oversee trade policy; I fail to see the point in wasting my time somewhere I’m not needed.”

 

Anya rolled her eyes, which was a rarity in and of itself. The day had worn her down enough to chip away at her regular front of unassailable politeness. No small feat, there. “You’re not going there to plead our case; Hassoun’s team can handle the talks perfectly well on their own.”

 

“Then, again, _what_ exactly is the point of my going?”

 

Anya’s laptop pinged as another security update came through from Omar. She began to type, eyes flitting from the screen to the shifting projection on the wall. She responded to Moira without looking up. “These talks are delicate, Moira; deliberations are happening on the highest level. The DIT Ministers feel respected by Hassoun’s presence—his sudden departure risks offending them if they now only have access to lower level members of staff. Having one of our Ministers come in to take Hassoun’s spot makes them feel like we’re still taking these talks seriously.”

 

“By that logic, any of the other Ministers could go.” Moira didn’t have time to be carted around the globe like a glorified flag waver; she had work to do here. She had—well, she couldn’t rightly leave Angela bleeding in a hospital bed, now could she? “Send Zora. She never turns down the chance to be a gopher.”

 

“Zora can’t go, and neither can any of the other Ministers. I’m telling you to go for a reason, and it’s because you’re the only logical choice.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

Anya glanced up from her laptop and pressed her lips together in a thin line, a poor attempt at a smile. “Because Angela will need to go with you.”

 

Moira’s eyes narrowed as she let Anya’s words sink in. She was being sent to London with Angela in tow. For what purpose? The woman was shell-shocked and only just hours removed from surgery. Given the nature of her attack, forcing her onto a plane now seemed like an inescapably cruel irony.

 

“Explain.”

 

“Look at our situation, Moira,” Anya said heavily, gesturing towards the city map. “Three terror attacks in one week, the first in Oasis’ history, and they all happen to coincide with Angela’s time here? I would chalk it up to coincidence with the first two, but this morning’s attempt on her life makes it clear. Someone very dangerous wanted either her or Peter Halleran to be scared away from coming here, and once they arrived the plan shifted to making sure they didn’t leave alive.”

 

The logic was sound, and something that Moira had considered herself. The timing was too close, this morning’s attack too blatant. Angela had caught someone’s eye—someone she shouldn’t have.

 

“And so you want Angela taken abroad for her protection?”

 

“For hers,” Anya agreed, “and everyone’s. Until we can sort out where these attacks are coming from, every citizen of Oasis is in danger of being caught in the crossfire. I cannot allow that, and I would not forgive myself if Angela died while she was supposedly under my protection.”

 

“What makes you think she’ll even agree to go to London?”

 

“I believe she’ll go if you’re the one accompanying her. She knows you, Moira. She trusts you. And _I_ trust you enough to keep her calm and cared for while we sort things out back here.” She waited, watching Moira carefully with weary eyes. “Will you do this?”

 

Moira leaned forward as she thought. She placed her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers while she met Anya’s gaze.

 

“You truly don’t think I’m a part of this.”

 

It was a statement, not a question. Moira was no fool—she knew that some were looking at her suspiciously in the wake of these bombings. No group had yet come forward to claim the attacks, but that meant it could be anyone. Including Talon. Moira had always covered her tracks well with them; accusations of her association with Talon had bubbled up following Blackwatch’s discovery, but nothing had stuck. There had been no smoking gun, no evidence to pin her with. Some considered rumors of her Talon involvement to be a malicious lie while others took it as fact. She knew that at least one Minister had raised their personal suspicions on whether or not the earlier attacks were an inside job only made successful by Moira’s direct involvement. Anya had no doubt heard such rumors.

 

“No,” she replied simply.

 

“Why not?”

 

There was another attempt at a smile, and this one was far more authentic. “Because I don’t believe you would do anything to hurt Oasis.”

 

Moira was saved from having to respond by the sudden appearance of Walsh, who burst through the door and looked from Moira to Anya nervously, as if he didn’t know who to address.

 

“Kieran,” Anya said, “Is everything alright?”

 

“Yes, I simply. . . well, I needed to let you know. Dr. Ziegler is awake, she—she’s having another episode.”

 

“What do you mean?” Anya asked. “According to her nurse she’s been awake but stable for the past hour. What triggered an episode?”

 

Walsh hesitated. His eyes darted away as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I may have. . . I was only trying to speak with her.”

 

Moira stood right away. “What did you do?”

 

“ _Nothing,_ ” Walsh said insistently. “I just wanted to check in and have a conversation. I’ve admired her for so long, I only wanted—” he stopped short of finishing that sentence, silenced by the look on Moira’s face. “The sight of me frightened her at first, but I thought I’d be able to calm her down. Talk her through it.”

 

Moira’s nails stung at her palm from the force with which she was clenching her fist. Talk her through it, he said. As if he knew anything about what Angela needed. How much worse had his little check-in made things for her?

 

“And then what happened?”

 

“I put my hand on her shoulder and she started screaming. Lashed out at me, I—I couldn’t get her to speak to me after that, I just left before things got worse.”

 

“You touched someone who was in the middle of a PTSD flashback without getting their consent first, and you’re surprised that they had a negative reaction?” Moira spat. “And you’re still deluded enough to call yourself a _professional_?”

 

“Moira,” Anya said sharply, “that will be enough. And Kieran?”  She turned to Walsh, who was growing increasingly red-faced and looking downright sheepish. He shuffled nervously under Anya’s gaze. “I know that upsetting Angela wasn’t your intent. But moving forward, I don’t want you interacting with her anymore while she’s at Muderis. Please avoid her room until she’s been discharged.”

 

Walsh looked as if he’d been slapped across the face. “But—”

 

Anya raised a hand, silencing him before he had a chance to properly protest. “If Angela doesn’t trust you or feel comfortable around you, being forced to see you will only complicate her recovery. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Moira watched with more than a bit of amusement as Walsh stared at the floor, too embarrassed to even make eye contact with Anya. “Yes,” he said finally. “I’ll. . . I’ll keep my distance.”

 

“Thank you. Is anyone in there with her now?”

 

Walsh shook his head. “I came straight here; I assumed that sending in nurses would only upset her more.”

 

“Well we can’t just leave her in there panicking alone.” Anya rubbed at the bridge of her nose, gathering her thoughts. “I’ll go in and try to calm her down.”

 

“No,” Moira said firmly. “I’ll go. I can help her.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“This is nowhere near the first time Angela’s struggled with flashbacks, and I’m the only one here who has experience dealing with them. Interacting with strangers will only make her more frantic right now; she needs someone familiar.” Moira arched a brow, looking pointedly between Anya and Walsh. “So if not me, who would you recommend?”

 

*

 

When Moira entered Angela’s room to find it empty, she thought for a brief, terrible moment that she had somehow managed to escape without anyone noticing. Or even worse, she’d been taken by someone. Her IV was unhooked, bedsheets thrown back and speckled with blood; Angela had likely reopened at least one of her wounds in her agitated state, if she’d truly been thrashing around as much as Walsh had said. Moira practically lurched for the phone on the wall, and had it up to her ear with three numbers already dialed before she heard something further in the room. It was the sound of something falling, clattering to the ground and rolling away. It was followed by a whispered curse, and Moira would know that ‘scheiße’ anywhere. Her eyes snapped immediately to the source—behind the closed bathroom door. The lights were off, but there was nowhere else the sound could have come from. She took a breath and placed the phone back on its receiver. Angela was fine. Angela was here. She needed help and she was scared, but she was _here._

 

Moira walked towards the washroom, steps purposefully quiet and slow. In the middle of an attack, loud footsteps and quick movements were some of Angela’s triggers. She knocked on the door to indicate that she was coming in and pushed it open slowly.

 

Angela was seated on the shower floor with her legs drawn up to her chest. It was hard to see her completely given the lack of light, but Moira could make out her form. Her head was tucked down, forehead pressed to her knees. Moira could hear her breathing, could practically _feel_ the desperation and fear that hung in the air above her. It was almost unbearably painful to see her like this—Moira had always believed that Angela was the strongest between the two of them. She still did. She hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unable to move.

 

“Angela.”

 

There was no response. Just loud, shaky breaths and the squeak of skin on acrylic as she tried to push herself further against the wall. Moira needed to say something, to ground her and realign her focus. What was it that Moira always used to say to help talk her down before?

 

“They’re only memories,” Moira said breathlessly, surprised at how naturally the words came to her after years of never having to say them. “Find your anchor.”

 

Angela’s breath stilled immediately. Her scramble to put even more space between herself and the door stopped as soon as she heard Moira’s voice. She remembered the words too—of course she did, how could either of them have forgotten?

 

“It’s only me,” Moira continued. “And you need to find your anchor.”

 

Angela nodded slowly. A nod was good. Words would be better, but pushing her to do anything would only make things worse. It was better to start at Angela’s level and gradually help her up than it was to try to yank her there gracelessly. Moira had gotten good at that over the years; she’d never been a patient woman, was always prone to rush and poke and prod until things progressed to her liking, but Angela had forced her to learn how to wait.

 

Moira closed the door behind herself and made her way towards the shower, going slowly as her eyes adjusted to the low light. She crouched down in the shower—meaning just to be _near_ Angela, like a familiar presence that was close enough if she needed it—but was instantly knocked back as arms wrapped around her middle and Angela hung on for dear life. Moira almost fell backwards completely, but steadied herself with a hand bracing against the floor.

 

This was familiar. Moira hated that it was familiar, but there was nothing she could do about it. She’d taken care of Angela before; in a sick way, she’d missed it. She knew what to do, what to say, how to gauge just how bad any particular episode was when compared to others. This one, for example, was likely one of the worst once Angela’s violence with her medics was considered. She was always more prone to attacks right after she’d gotten home from the field, particularly if she’d been injured, so that was hardly surprising. She was only hours removed from a brush with death this time around.

 

The line about the anchor was an old one. Angela had apparently picked it up in therapy as a teenager, and she said she found it helpful to repeat whenever she felt herself spiralling. Then Moira picked it up and it became a shared mantra, something they could repeat back to each other when Moira wanted to comfort Angela and didn’t know anything else to say. And then the whole thing had evolved even further, with formulaic questions coming into play once Angela was calm enough to talk.   

 

Oh _right._ The questions.

 

Moira waited a few minutes, letting Angela’s breathing even out as she worked through whatever trauma was playing in her head. Once she seemed ready, Moira began.

 

“What do you hear?”

 

Beats of silence, then—

 

“Just you,” Angela murmured. “Just your voice.”

 

“Alright, then focus on it. Now, what do you feel?”

 

Angela’s hands tightened at the back of Moira’s labcoat. The two were flush against each other, and Moira could feel the rise and fall of Angela’s chest with every breath.

 

“You.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Pain.” Tight fists clutching even tighter at the fabric. “In my shoulder and my head mostly.”

 

“What do you taste?”

 

“Blood.”

 

“What do you smell?”

 

Angela took a few short, shallow inhales before she managed a deeper one. The air ghosted over Moira’s exposed collarbone.

 

“Antiseptic. Laundry detergent.”

 

“And what do you see?” She realized as soon as she said it that Angela couldn’t see _anything,_ not in this darkness. “Well, I’ll need to turn the light on.”

 

“No,” Angela said sharply. She shook her head, face turned down and pressed against Moira. “Not yet, I. . . can’t.”

 

Moira understood. Angela had tried to explain it once before years ago, although she’d given up when she found that she wasn’t explaining it as clearly as she’d wanted. Darkness was comforting. It was deep and absolute and nondiscriminating. Real, true darkness provided an opportunity to stop existing for a while, albeit a cheap one. To slip into nothingness like sinking deeper into a warm bath. Angela found it easier to think—to breathe—when she was enveloped in darkness. She needed to breathe now.

 

“Alright.” Moira settled with her back against the shower, pulling Angela down to rest against her. “Alright, take your time. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang at https://antivanarmada.tumblr.com/
> 
> ALSO if any of you commented on the last chapter and didn’t get a reply from me, I am so freaking sorry. I try to respond to everyone because I love and appreciate every single comment, but I let them pile on last time and then I got in my head about responding /too/ late and I don’t know, social anxiety is a hell of a drug. But in this house we love and appreciate all commenters and I promise to not leave you hanging this time. <3


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